J 


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§  § 

o  o 

§      AMERICAN    AUTHORS   &  THEIR    HOMES.  § 

8  Personal  Descriptions  and  Interviews.     Edited  with  K 

an  Introduction  and  Additions  by  FRANCIS  WHITING  « 

HALSEY.      Eighteen  full-page  Illustrations.      With  o 

§  Index  and  Lists  of  Books.    12 mo.    Gilt  top.    $1.25  § 

c  net.      12  cents  postage  additional.  g 

S      AUTHORS  OF  OUR  DAY  IN  THEIR  HOMES.  e 

Personal  Descriptions  and  Interviews.     Edited  with 

3  Additions  by  FRANCIS  WHITING  HALSEY.      Seven-  8 

S  teen  full-page  Illustrations.      With  Index  and  Lists  8 

of  Books.    I2mo.    Gilt  top.    $1.25  net.    12  cents  g 

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•5  O 
CCO  GO?  00?  GO?  U/5  Z(f>  GO9  GQQ  GOQGOg  GO1  OO7  OOi  OO3  COO  GOV  Ufi  GO! 


Women  ^Authors  of  Our 


"Their  Homes 


Note 

CT*  WE  NTT  of  these  sketches  were  printed  originally  in 

J.  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  SATURDAY  REVIEW  OF  BOOKS. 

They  are  republished  here  by  the  courtesy  of  THE  NEW 

YORK  TIMES   COMPANY.       The  six  other  sketches  were 

prepared  especially  for  this  volume. 


-zf- 


I 

I 


coo  coo  coo  coo  coo  coo  COO  coo  coo  coocoo  GOO  GO?  GOO  GOS  too  coo  GOO  GOO  GOO 


WOMEN  AUTHORS 

OF  OUR  DAY 
IN  THEIR  HOMES 


§  — : —   § 

§    Personal  Descriptions   &  Interviews    § 


Edited  with  Additions 
By 

FRANCIS  WHITING  HALSEY 

With  many   Full-page  Illustrations 


iorfe 

JAMES   POTT    &   COMPANY 

MCMIII 


COO  coo  COS  c<73  coo  coo  coo  coo  coo  COOGOO  GO;  GOO  GOO  GOO  GOO  GOO  W,  vcr.  oOS 


COPYRIGHT,    1898,    1899,    1901,    1902,    BY 
THE     NEW     YORK     TIMES     COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1903,    BY 
JAMES     POTT     &     COMPANY 


PUBLISHED,    MARCH,    1903 


o- 

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•pc, 

1       H^# 

nit  w 

Preface 


T 


1HE  /tc'0  volumes  already  issued  in  this 
series    have   dealt   exclusively  with   the 
homes   of  men.     T'hey   have   illustrated 
^  the  marked  improvement  in  the  worldly  state  of 
1-1  authors  that  has  occurred  since  Hawthorne  lived 
in  the  Old  Manse  at  Concord  and  Poe  in  the 
cottage  at  Fordham.    Meanwhile,  authorship  has 
o>  become  a  source  of  income  to  women,  a  considerable 
10  number  of  whom  have  found  it  the  means  to  a 
'_  comfortable  livelihood.     T'he   present  volume,  in 
c  accordance  with  the  original  plan  of  the  series, 
presents  accounts  of  the  homes  of  some  of  these. 
It  is  the  last  volume  of  the  series. 

The  editor  begs  to  say  that  he  has  derived  no 

little  personal  pleasure  from  the  reception  which 

|  the  reading  public  has  accorded  to  these  books — a 

£  pleasure  which  has  been  something  more  than  an 

echo  of  that  which  he  derived  from  the  reception 

given  to  the  sketches  when  first  printed  in  THE 

NEW  YORK   TIMES  SATURDAY   REVIEW,  of 

which  he  at  the  time  of  their  publication  was  the 

editor,     rfhe  success  of  the  series  probably  could 

[vii] 


278756 


Preface 

not  have  been  so  great  had  the  books  appeared  a 
generation  ago. 

Popular  interest  in  the  homes  of  authors  be 
longs  indeed  to  quite  modern  days — at  least  in  so 
far  as  we  may  judge  from  books  that  have  been 
'written  about  them.  Ben  Jonson  wrote  an  ac 
count  of  his  visit  to  Hawthornden  and  the  chron 
icle  has  become  more  interesting  in  our  day  than 
anything  Drummond  himself  ever  -wrote.  Eras 
mus  was  not  unmindful  of  the  interest  which  lay 
in  his  stay  with  Sir  Thomas  More,  while  Vol 
taire's  journey  to  England  bore  fruit  of  the  remi 
niscent  order.  But  it  remains  true  that  for  the 
widespread  attention  now  paid  to  authors'  homes 
we  are  indebted  to  the  taste  of  our  times. 

"70  Washington  Irving,  more  perhaps  than  to 
any  other  person,  is  this  growth  to  be  ascribed. 
<70  the  impulse  created  by  his  writings,  we  must 
ascribe  the  success  of  such  later  publications  as 
"  'The  Knickerbocker  Gallery  "  an d  "  ^he  Homes 
and  Haunts  of  Our  Elder  Poets"  Before  Irving 
went  to  Stratford,  few  were  the  pilgrims  who 
sought  the  streets  of  Shakespeare's  town.  Before  he 
wrote  of  Poets'  Corner,  the  sacred  precincts  of  that 
storied  aisle  had  shared  little  of  the  world's  per 
sonal  regard,  ^hese  things  have  now  so  changed, 
that  Stratford  and  Stoke  Pogis,  Abbotsford  and 

[  viii  ] 


Preface 

Grasmere,  Concord  and  Irving's  own  Sunny- 
side,  seem  likely  to  rival  the  shrine  of  Becket  or  the 
dome  of  Michael  Angelo  as  places  of  pious  pil 
grimage. 

Within  the  walls  of  houses  where  books  grew 
into  life  nothing  more  than  memories  may  remain, 
but  men  and  women  will  not  pass  them  by  un 
heeded.  *fhey  haunt  such  homes.  Imagination 
comes  to  their  aid  and  they  readily  restore  the 
former  scenes  until  the  very  atmosphere  seems 
still  to  breathe  of  minds  which  dwelt  there.  Be 
the  place  simple  or  be  it  grand,  the  interest  is 
ever  the  same.  No  resplendent  dwelling-place, 
neither  Stowe  nor  Cliveden,  neither  Lyndhurst  nor 
Biltmore,  can  hope  to  become  familiar  to  one  per 
son  where  Shakespeare's  birthplace,  Sunnyside, 
or  the  cottage  of  Wordsworth  is  known  to  a  thou 
sand.  Thus  does  time  accomplish  for  the  writers 
of  books  poetic  revenges,  and  thus  do  we  see 
vindicated  the  remark  of  Emerson  that  '•'•that 
country  is  fairest  which  is  inhabited  by  the 
noblest  minds" 


[h] 


Contents 

Page 
INTRODUCTION  :   The  Pecuniary  Rewards  of 

Our  Older  Authors.    By  Frederick 
Stanford I 

I.  MARION  HARLAND  in  Pompton,  New 

Jersey.       By  Charles  T.   Sempers      17 

II.  BERTHA  RUNKLE  in  New  York.     By 

William  Wallace  Whitelock      .      .      31 

III.  AGNES  REPPLIER  in  Philadelphia.      By 

Warwick  J.  Price 41 

IV.  MARGARET  DELANO  in  Boston.     By 

Julia  R.  Tutwiler 51 

V.  LUCAS  MALET  in   London.     By  Will 
iam  Wallace  Whitelock  ....      63 

VI.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT  in  Eng 
land.     By  William  Wallace  White- 

lock 73 

•  VII.   KATE     DOUGLAS     WIGGIN    in    New 

York.     By  W.  de  Wagstaffe      .      .83 

VIII.   MARY  JOHNSTON  in  Birmingham,  Ala 
bama.      By  E.  S.  Boddington     .     .     91 


Contents 

Page 

IX.  JOHN  OLIVER   HOBBES  in    London. 

By  William  Wallace  Whitelock     .   101 

X.  AMELIA  E.  BARR  in  Cornwall-on-the- 

Hudson.   By  Edgar  Mayhew  Bacon   1 1 1 

XI.  LOUISE     CHANDLER     MOULTON    in 

Boston.      By  Wilder  D.  Quint      .   121 

XII.  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD  in  London. 

By  William  Wallace  Whitelock     .    129 

XIII.  MRS.   SHERWOOD    in   Delhi    and    in 

New  York 137 

XIV.  BLANCHE  WILLIS   HOWARD  in   Mu 

nich.      By  Olivia  Howard  Dunbar.    143 

XV.  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD  in 
Deer  Island,  Massachusetts.  By 
Wilder  D.  Quint 165 

XVI.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY  in  Milton  Lower 
Mills,  Massachusetts.  By  Wilder 
D.  Quint 175 

XVII.  MARGARET   E.  SANGSTER  in  Brook 
lyn.      By  Flora  May   Kimball  .      .187 

XVIII.  RUTH   MC£NERY   STUART  in    New 

York  City.      By  Stanhope  Sams     .    199 

XIX.  MARY    E.    WILKINS    in    Randolph, 

Massachusetts.  By  Wilder  D.  Quint   209 


XX.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE  in  Boston  and 

Newport.     By  Mrs.  Sherwood      .   219 

XXI.  JEANNETTE    L.    GILDER    in    New 

York.      By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler       .   231 

•  XXII.  EDITH    WHARTON  in    New  York. 

By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler    .      .     .      .241 

XXIII.  GERTRUDE    ATHERTON     in     New 

York.     By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler  .      .   249 

•  XXIV.  MARY  MAPES  DODGE  in  New  York. 

By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler    ....   257 

XXV.   REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS  in  Phila 
delphia.      By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler   .   269 

XXVI.   EDITH  M.  THOMAS  in  New  Brigh 
ton.      By  Julia  R.  Tutwiler    .      .   277 

XXVII.  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  in 
Gloucester,  Mass.  By  Julia  R. 
Tutwiler 283 

INDEX 295 


Page 


[  xiii  ] 


Illustrations 


MARION   HARLAND'S   HOME  .     .     .     Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

HOUSE    IN  ONTEORA    PARK    IN    THE   CATS- 
KILLS  32 

Where  Miss  Runkle  first  wrote  "The  Helmet 
of  Navarre ' ' 

MRS.  DELANO'S  DRAWING-ROOM       ...  52 

MRS.  BURNETT'S  HOME  IN  ENGLAND     .     .  74 

MRS.  WIGGIN  AT  HOME 84 

MRS.  BARR  IN  A  CORNER  OF  HER  HOME  .  112 

A  CORNER  IN  MRS.  MOULTON'S  LIBRARY  .  122 

MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD'S  HOME  ....  130 

MRS.  SHERWOOD'S  HOME  IN  DELHI  .     .     .  138 

MRS.  SPOFFORD'S  HOME 166 

MRS.  WHITNEY'S  HOME 176 

A  CORNER  IN  Miss  WILKINS'S  HOME    .     .210 

MRS.   HOWE'S  HOME  NEAR  NEWPORT   .     .  220 

[xv] 


Illustrations 

Facing 
page 

Miss  GILDER  AT  HER  DESK  AT  HOME  .  232 
PORTRAIT  OF  MRS.  WHARTON  .  .  .  .242 
PORTRAIT  OF  MRS.  ATHERTON  .  .  .  .  250 
MRS.  DODGE'S  DESK  AT  HOME  ....  258 


[xvi] 


Introduction 
The  Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 


Introduction 

'The  Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

NOW  that  women  have  invaded  the  ranks 
of  successful  authorship,  readers  perhaps 
will  find  it  interesting  to  have  given  here 
a  suggestive  record  of  some  of  the  slight  pecuniary 
returns  that  were  derived  by  authors  from  their 
books,  one,  two,  and  three  generations  ago.  It  is 
not  more  than  twenty  years  since  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  wrote  to  a  young  writer,  with  whom  he 
sympathized,  that  all  the  authors  in  the  United 
States,  he  believed,  were  as  poor  as  church  mice. 
The  young  man  had  aspired  to  act  as  amanuensis 
and  private  secretary  to  Dr.  Holmes  for  any  com 
pensation  he  might  offer,  but  the  doctor  assured  him 
that  he  had  never  indulged  in  any  such  extravagance. 
The  only  professional  man  of  letters  of  whom  he 
knew  who  had  had  a  private  secretary  was  Prescott, 
and  he  lived  on  inherited  wealth. 

If  we  look  backward  to  the  very  beginning  of 
any  adequate  pecuniary  reward  for  the  American 
author,  the  success  gained  by  Irving  will  naturally 
be  suggested  first.  The  initial  part  of  "  The  Sketch 
Book"  was  published  in  the  United  States  in  1819 


Introduction 

in  an  edition  of  2,000  copies  at  seventy-five  cents  a 
copy.  Irving,  or  one  of  his  brothers,  assumed  the 
publisher's  risk;  and  it  is  presumed  that  he  received 
eventually  about  $600  on  the  venture.  With  the 
exception  of  $150  he  had  been  paid  for  the  work  of 
translating  a  volume  from  the  French,  and  some 
slight  profits  from  the  humorous  "  Knickerbocker  " 
in  1808,  the  returns  on  the  sale  of  "  The  Sketch 
Book "  were  living's  first  earnings  in  his  own 
country. 

He  was  at  that  time  thirty-six  years  old.  "  I 
have  suffered  several  precious  years  of  youth  and 
lively  imagination  to  pass  unimproved,"  he  wrote 
from  England  to  his  brother,  "  and  it  behooves  me 
to  make  the  most  of  what  is  left."  Two-score  years 
remained  to  him  after  that  resolution;  and  the 
tabulation  of  the  money  his  works  yielded  him  dur 
ing  that  period  presents  the  total  of  $205,383.34. 
Of  that  amount  $122,380.11  was  derived  from  sales 
and  the  leasing  of  copyrights  in  the  United  States, 
so  that  we  have  an  average  of  $3,059.50  yearly  dur 
ing  forty  years. 

The  largest  returns  came  from  the  "  Life  of  Co 
lumbus,"  of  which  there  was  an  abridged  edition 
for  use  in  schools.  The  two  editions  of  the  book 
brought  together  $9,000.  Next  in  pecuniary  profit 
was  "  The  Conquest  of  Granada,"  yielding  $4,750; 
then  "  Astoria,"  for  which  Astor  paid  Irving  $4,000; 


The  Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

and  after  that  the  "  Alhambra,"  bringing  $3,000; 
"  Bonneville's  Adventures,"  $3,000;  "A  Tour  on 
the  Prairie,"  $2,400;  "  Crayon  Miscellany,"  $2,100; 
and  "  Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain,"  $1,500. 
The  lease  of  the  copyrights  of  "  The  Sketch  Book," 
"  Knickerbocker,"  "  Bracebridge  Hall,"  and  "  Tales 
of  a  Traveller,"  from  1828  to  1835,  brought  the 
further  sum  of  $4,200. 

From  1842  to  1848  Irving's  works  were  out  of 
print  in  this  country,  and  a  noticeable  fact  is  that, 
of  the  entire  amount  they  earned  for  him  in  the 
United  States,  $88,143.08  came  during  the  last 
eleven  years  of  his  life  and  after  there  was  a  revival 
of  his  reputation  and  his  works,  when  the  books 
were  offered  in  a  uniform  edition.  Irving,  in  fact, 
was  not  in  easy  circumstances  until  renewed  interest 
in  what  he  had  written  had  become  pronounced  in 
his  new  publisher,  who  was  now  George  P.  Putnam. 
The  total  amount  subsequently  earned  by  Irving 
excited  remark  and  wonder.  No  American  author 
of  the  first  rank  could  make  such  a  showing. 

Cooper,  who  might  probably  have  come  the  near 
est  to  it,  always  took  pains  to  conceal  his  earn 
ings.  Professor  Lounsbury  states,  in  his  biography 
of  Cooper,  that  there  appears  to  be  no  way  of  dis 
covering  what  amounts  he  received.  His  earnings 
by  his  pen  began  with  the  publication  of  "  The  Spy," 
in  1821,  and  continued  for  thirty  years.  Divide, 
[S] 


Introduction 

however,  the  total  amount  received  by  either  writer, 
and  especially  Irving's  earnings,  which  are  known, 
by  the  number  of  years,  or  the  number  of  works,  the 
amount  represents  and  the  result  may  assume  a  less 
dazzling  appearance.  Until  a  period  of  unprece 
dented  sales  for  popular  books  had  arrived,  Irving 
was  the  one  author  who  could  be  cited  as  an  example 
of  what  a  prolific  writer  might  hope  to  gain  if  he 
captured  great  popularity  on  both  sides  of  the  At 
lantic  and  retained  it  forty  years. 

In  Charles  T.  Congdon's  delightful,  but  almost 
forgotten,  "  Reminiscences  of  a  Journalist,"  pub 
lished  in  1880,  the  statement  is  made  that  fifty  years 
before  the  time  when  Congdon  was  writing  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  remuneration  for  authors, 
apart  from  the  money  paid  to  preachers  and  the 
writers  of  school-books.  "  I  should  be  surprised," 
he  adds,  "  to  learn  that  Bryant  received  any  pecun 
iary  compensation  for  '  Thanatopsis,'  which  was 
published  in  The  North  American  Review  in  1817. 
I  believe  that  Godey  and  Graham,  the  Philadelphia 
magazine  publishers,  were  the  first  to  pay  at  all 
handsomely.  The  coolness  with  which  an  editor 
would  graciously  accept  an  article  and  print  it 
without  a  word  of  thanks  was  even  then  irritating, 
though  we  did  not  expect  anything  else.  Now  it 
would  be  regarded  as  a  piece  of  swindling.  Mr. 
Willis  was  the  first  magazine  writer  who  was  toler- 
[6] 


Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

ably  well  paid.  At  one  time,  about  1842,  he  was 
writing  four  articles  monthly  for  four  magazines, 
and  receiving  $100  from  each.  Even  this  would  not 
now  be  considered  much  for  a  man  of  his  great 
popularity  and  reputation  as  a  writer." 

It  was  Willis  who  took  the  lead  in  pecuniary 
success  among  authors  that  were  next  in  succession 
to  Irving  and  Cooper.  We  must  remember  here 
that  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Poe,  and 
Willis  were  all  of  about  the  same  age,  and  began 
authorship  contemporaneously.  Both  Hawthorne 
and  Willis  were  leading  contributors  to  The  Token, 
an  annual  published  by  S.  G.  Goodrich.  To  the 
former  Goodrich  wrote  in  1830  regarding  four 
sketches,  "The  Gentle  Boy,"  "Roger  Malvin's 
Burial,"  "The  Wives  of  the  Dead,"  and  "My 
Uncle  Molineaux,"  that,  as  a  practical  evidence  of 
the  uncommon  merit  of  the  tales,  he  would  offer 
him  $35  for  the  privilege  of  using  the  first,  which 
must  have  delighted  the  man  to  whom  for  some  of 
the  "  Twice  Told  Tales  "  only  $3  each  was  paid. 

Later  Hawthorne  was  offered  by  the  same  pub 
lisher  $300  to  write  a  book  of  600  pages  on  the 
manners,  customs,  and  civilities  of  all  countries. 
His  college  friend,  Horatio  Bridge,  wrote  to  him 
the  same  month :  "  I  have  been  trying  to  think 
what  you  are  so  miserable  for.  Although  you  have 
not  much  property,  you  have  health  and  powers  of 
[7] 


Introduction 

writing  which  have  made  you  and  still  make  you 
independent.  Suppose  you  get  but  $300  per  year 
for  writing.  You  can  with  economy  live  upon  that, 

though  it  would  be  a  d d  tight  squeeze.  You 

have  no  family  dependent  on  you.  Why  should 
you  borrow  trouble?"  This  friend,  unknown  to 
Hawthorne,  assumed  any  loss  the  publisher  might 
suffer  who  dared  to  tempt  the  public  with  the  col 
lected  tales. 

It  remains  to  be  related  that  Goodrich's  other 
discovery,  Willis,  was  doing  much  better  than  the 
recluse  at  Salem.  He  broke  away  from  New  Eng 
land  early,  and  hastened  to  New  York.  There  he 
became  a  partner  with  George  P.  Morris  and 
Theodore  Fay  in  publishing  The  Mirror.  One  day 
in  1833,  while  the  three  put  their  heads  together  in 
Sandy  Welsh's  oyster  saloon,  so  runs  the  tale,  it 
was  agreed  to  send  Willis  abroad  to  write  weekly 
letters.  For  this  undertaking  Morris  and  Fay 
scraped  together  $500,  and  it  was  promised  that 
Willis  should  receive  $10  a  letter. 

That  was  the  amount  which  floated  Willis  while 
he  was  making  the  acquaintance  of  English  society 
and  producing  the  first  of  his  "  Pencillings  by  the 
Way."  The  book  brought  him  repute  and  $5,000. 
Four  years  later,  in  1839,  he  stated  that  his  income 
for  the  year  had  been  $7,500,  "  all  used  for  ex 
penses  and  accumulated  debts."  And  thirty  years 
[8] 


T'he  Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

later,  when  he  died,  something  similar  might  have 
been  reported. 

During  this  period,  while  Willis  was  the  most 
popular  and  the  best  paid  author,  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
appears  to  have  been  the  writer  of  real  reputation 
who  got  the  smallest  remuneration.  His  first  earn 
ing  was  the  prize  money,  $100,  he  received  in  Bal 
timore  for  "  The  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle."  After 
that  success  he  got  employment  as  assistant  editor 
of  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  at  $10  a 
week.  Later,  when  he  was  a  free  lance  in  Phila 
delphia,  he  contributed  much  to  Burton  s  Magazine 
at  the  rate  of  $3  a  printed  page.  Several  of  his 
best  tales  were  published  at  that  price.  He  sent 
reviews  and  critical  articles  to  Lowell's  Pioneer  in 
Boston  for  $5  and  $10,  but  that  publication  finally 
failed,  leaving  him  one  of  the  unpaid  creditors. 

In  1841,  when  he  was  thirty- two  years  old,  Poe 
wrote  to  a  friend  in  a  Government  office  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  secure  any  regular  work  which 
would  pay  him  $50x3  a  year.  "  To  coin  one's  brain 
into  silver  at  the  nod  of  a  master,"  he  declared,  "  is, 
to  my  thinking,  the  hardest  task  in  the  world."  In 
1843  he  won  from  The  Dollar  Newspaper  a  prize 
of  $100  for  the  story  entitled  "The  Gold  Bug," 
which  had  been  rejected  by  Burton.  That,  with 
the  single  exception  of  the  other  prize  already  men 
tioned,  was  Poe's  best  pay  for  any  single  produc- 
[9] 


Introduction 

tion.  His  greatest  success,  "  The  Raven,"  was  sold 
in  1845  to  The  American  Review,  a  second-rate 
monthly,  for  $15.  The  Mirror  reprinted  the  poem 
immediately,  calling  attention  to  its  exceptional 
quality,  and  it  was  soon  afloat  in  all  the  papers  of 
the  country. 

Foe's  next  best  achievement  was  "  The  Bells," 
published  in  Sartain's  Magazine  for  November, 
1849,  the  month  following  Foe's  death.  The  editor 
who  accepted  the  poem,  Professor  John  S.  Hart, 
once  related  to  the  present  writer  the  particulars  of 
the  transaction.  Foe  called  with  the  manuscript 
while  on  his. way  to  Baltimore  in  the  spring  of 
1849.  Professor  Hart  paid  him  $15  for  it.  Sev 
eral  weeks  later  Poe  sent  him  the  poem  rewritten 
and  lengthened,  asking  for  $10  additional,  and  that 
also  was  paid.  When  the  poem  was  published  it 
was  discovered  that  Graham  had  also  bought  it 
from  the  author  at  the  same  price. 

The  literary  pay  which  Lowell  and  Longfellow 
received  in  their  early  days  was  not  sufficient  to  en 
courage  either  to  dispense  with  a  salary  as  pro 
fessor  of  $1,500  a  year  at  Harvard  College.  There 
used  to  be  a  statement  current  in  Cambridge  that, 
about  the  time  when  Lowell  was  appointed  to  a 
place  in  the  diplomatic  service,  his  neighbor,  Mr. 
John  Bartlett,  the  compiler  of  Bartlett's  "  Familiar 
Quotations,"  had  realized  more  on  three  editions 
[10] 


Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

of  that  work  than  Lowell  had  received  for  all  he 
had  published.  Lowell's  first  pay  of  any  conse 
quence  was  earned  by  editorial  work  and  articles 
contributed  to  The  North  American  Review.  It 
is  inferred  from  a  passage  in  Scudder's  biography 
that  when  Lowell  had  $800  in  hand  he  felt  at  ease 
in  money  affairs. 

Longfellow  enjoyed  the  labor  of  composition,  pay 
or  no  pay.  Although  the  publisher  of  "  Hyperion  " 
failed  and  one-half  of  the  edition  was  seized  by  the 
creditors,  the  author  wrote:  "No  matter.  I  had 
the  glorious  satisfaction  of  writing  it."  He  also 
informed  his  friend  Green,  in  1840,  that  all  the 
publishers,  whether  of  books  or  periodicals,  were 
desperately  poor  just  then  and  that  the  editor  of 
The  Knickerbocker  Magazine  had  not  paid  him  for 
his  work  during  the  last  three  years.  A  letter  from 
Park  Benjamin  at  the  beginning  of  that  year  makes 
it  apparent,  however,  that  the  editor  of  The  New 
World  was  not  without  money.  "  Your  ballad, 
'  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,'  "  he  sent  word  to 
Longfellow,  "  is  grand.  Inclosed  are  $25,  the  sum 
you  mentioned  for  it." 

"  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  "  was  printed  in  The 
Knickerbocker  for  January,  1841,  and  the  pay  for 
it  was  $25.  A  few  months  later  Sam  Ward,  who 
was  then  in  Wall  Street,  began  to  act  as  Long 
fellow's  literary  broker  in  New  York.  He  wrote 


Introduction 

to  Ward  that  Benjamin  wanted  a  couple  of  poems 
and  had  offered  $20  for  each.  "  If  you  have  not 
disposed  of  '  Charles  River,'  "  he  directed,  "  send 
it  to  him.  I  shall  send  him  a  new  poem,  called 
simply  '  Fennel.'  It  is  as  good  perhaps  as  '  Excel 
sior.'  Hawthorne,  who  is  passing  the  night  with 
me,  likes  it  better." 

It  was  Ward  who  negotiated  the  sale  of  "  The 
Hanging  of  the  Crane  "  with  Robert  Bonner  of 
The  Ledger  in  1874.  Longfellow  knew  nothing 
of  the  affair  until  Ward  carried  him  a  check  for 
$3,000  and  asked  for  the  manuscript.  The  money 
proved  too  tempting  to  resist.  Bonner,  in  addition, 
made  Ward  a  present  of  $1,000  for  the  service  he 
had  rendered  him.  In  1877  Harper  &  Brothers 
paid  Longfellow  $1,000  for  the  right  to  publish  in 
their  magazine  the  long  poem  "  Keramos."  These 
two  amounts  were  the  culminating  prices  for  Long 
fellow's  single  productions.  His  executors  esti 
mated  in  their  accounting  that  the  plates  and  copy 
rights  of  all  his  works  in  1882  were  worth  about 
$30,000.  He  had  been  an  industrious  literary 
worker  for  more  than  fifty  years. 

Other  items  which  may  be  added,  giving  evi 
dence  of  the  remuneration  that  the  most  famous 
have  received,  should  include  the  first  instalments 
to  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  For  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  as  a  serial  in  The  National  Era,  during 
[12] 


'The  Pecuniary  Rewards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

part  of  the  year  1851,  she  received  $300.  Then 
John  P.  Jewett,  a  young  Boston  publisher,  offered 
to  bring  out  the  story  in  book  form  if  Professor 
Stowe  would  share  half  the  expense.  That  offer 
was  declined.  The  daring  publisher — many  others 
having  refused  to  consider  the  book — thought  twice, 
and  boldly  signed  an  agreement  on  March  13,  1852, 
to  publish  an  edition  of  5,000  copies  and  give  the 
author  ten  per  cent,  on  all  sales.  The  yield  to  her 
in  the  first  four  months  was  $10,000. 

As  a  money-earning  novel  Mrs.  Stowe's  work 
left  those  of  her  contemporaries  far  in  the  rear. 
That  famous  book  is  commonly  believed  to  be  the 
most  widely  circulated  book  ever  written  in  this 
country.  None  of  the  recent  great  successes  has 
rivalled  it — not  even  "  David  Harum,"  the  chief 
success  of  all,  with  its  total  sale  to  date  of  675,000 
copies.  Hawthorne  had  published  "  The  Scarlet 
Letter  "  the  year  before  "  Uncle  Tom  "  appeared, 
and  when  Mrs.  Stowe  was  counting  her  thousands 
he  had  in  the  bank  $1,800  as  the  profits,  which  he 
meditated  investing  in  a  house  and  land  somewhere 
in  the  region  of  Lenox. 

Next  to  writers  of  fiction,  Prescott,  the  historian, 
is  believed  to  have  had  the  largest  financial  success 
during  the  years  immediately  following  the  period 
of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  and  "  The  Scarlet  Let 
ter."  Six  months  after  the  publication  of  the  first 
[13] 


Introduction 

two  volumes  of  "  Philip  the  Second,"  in  1856,  he 
stated  that  in  England  it  had  been  published  in 
four  separate  editions,  and  in  the  United  States 
8,000  sets  had  been  sold.  The  impulse  it  had  pro 
vided  for  the  sales  of  his  other  works  had  resulted 
in  an  absorption  by  the  public  of  about  30,000  vol 
umes.  That  sale  brought  him  $17,000. 

But  here  we  have  only  the  credit  side  of  Pres- 
cott's  account  in  writing  history.  The  debit  would 
reveal,  during  about  twenty-five  years,  a  large  ex 
penditure  for  books  imported  from  Spain,  researches 
essential  to  his  work,  and  the  cost  of  all  the  stereo 
typed  plates,  which  he  leased  to  publishers  after  his 
reputation  had  grown  sufficiently  to  attract  them. 

This  summary  of  the  value  of  authorship  in 
money,  in  the  long  twilight,  or  gloaming,  before 
the  dawn  of  a  golden  age,  may  be  left  to  a  comment 
by  Bayard  Taylor,  with  whom  a  retrospect  con 
cerning  rewards  and  recompenses  was  always  more 
or  less  a  favorite  pastime.  "  Wealth,"  he  wrote  to 
a  Western  friend  in  1877,  "  is  never  attained  in 
this  country,  or  perhaps  in  any  other,  by  the  highest 
pursuit  and  most  permanent  form  of  literary  labor. 
Emerson  is  now  seventy-four  years  old,  and  his  last 
volume  is  the  only  one  which  has  approached  a 
remunerative  sale.  Bryant  is  in  his  eighty-third 
year,  and  he  could  not  buy  a  modest  house  with  all 
he  ever  received  in  his  life  from  his  poems.  Wash- 
[14] 


The  Pecuniary  Reivards  of  Our  Older  Authors 

ington  Irving  was  nearly  seventy  years  old  before 
the  sale  of  his  works  at  home  met  the  expenses  of 
his  simple  life  at  Sunnyside.  I  have  no  reason  to 
complain  of  the  remuneration  formerly  derived 
from  the  works  which  I  know  possess  slight  literary 
value.  But  the  translation  of  '  Faust,'  to  which  I 
gave  all  my  best  and  freshest  leisure  during  six  or 
seven  years,  has  hardly  yielded  me  as  much  as  a 
fortnight's  lecturing." 


[15] 


Marion   Harland 
In  Pompton,  New  Jersey 


BY   MARION    HARLAND* 

Born  in  Amelia   County,  Virginia 

Alone. 

Judith. 

The  Hidden  Path. 

True  as  Steel. 

The  Royal  Road. 

Dr.  Dale. 

Sunnybank. 

From  My  Youth  Up. 

Eve's  Daughters. 

His  Great  Self. 

Literary  Hearthstones. 

Common  Sense  in  the  Household. 

Loitering  in  Pleasant  Paths. 

Some  Colonial  Homesteads. 

More  Colonial  Homesteads. 

When  Grandmamma  was  New. 

An  Old-Field  School-Girl. 

The  National  Cook-Book. 

When  Ghosts  Walk. 

*  This  list  of  books  and  the  most  of  those  which  follow  are  not  offered 
as  complete  lists.  They  will  merely  serve  to  suggest  some  of  the  more  im 
portant  works  by  the  authors  named. 


Marion   Harland 
In  Pompton,  New  Jersey 

THE   name  of  Sunnybank,  an  old  home 
stead  in  Virginia,  which  is  also  the  title 
of   Marion    Harland's   eighth   novel,   has 
appropriately  been  given  to  her  country  house  on 
Ramapo  Lake,  in  the  picturesque  Valley  of  Pompton, 
in   New  Jersey.     Here,  with  the  Ramapo  Moun 
tains  circling  about  them,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Terhune 
for  thirty  years  have  lived  in  summer.     Once  they 
spent  a  winter  there,  but  winters  are  now  generally 
passed  in  the  city. 

Through  Mrs.  Terhune's  kindly  forethought  her 
faithful  coachman  met  the  writer  of  this  article  at 
the  railway  station — and  Pompton  is  blessed  with 
two  railroads  to  New  York — and  drove  him  over  a 
mile  and  a  half  of  macadamized  road  to  Sunnybank. 
With  evident  loyalty,  he  pointed  out  "  our  place 
over  there  "  as  we  came  to  the  western  edge  of  the 
lake.  Directly  opposite,  on  the  south  shore,  was 
Sunnybank,  a  fine  growth  of  native  trees  surround 
ing  the  house  which  fronts  on  the  water.  The 
road  winds  along  the  shore  to  a  little  bridge 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

which  spans  a  narrow  stream  at  the  easterly  end  of 
the  lake,  when  it  crosses  to  the  south  bank  and  re 
turns  almost  to  the  other  end. 

Finally,  as  we  passed  a  little  brown  lodge,  a  gently 
sloping  roadway  went  through  well-wooded  grounds 
toward  the  shore  of  the  lake.  Then  came  a  turn, 
and  the  carriage  was  at  the  hospitable  door  of 
Sunnybank.  On  the  southwest  side  of  the  house  a 
veranda  enclosed  in  glass  is  fitted  up  in  winter  with 
shelves  filled  with  growing  plants.  Fronting  the 
lake,  the  porch  is  also  enclosed  in  glass.  On  the 
occasion  of  this  visit,  which  was  in  winter,  Marion 
Harland's  grandchildren — the  children  of  her 
daughters — were  playing  on  the  frozen  lake  with 
skates  and  sled.  Mrs.  Terhune's  library,  which 
opens  into  this  sheltered  porch,  is  a  cosey  room  of 
soft  and  quiet  colors. 

The  walls  and  ceiling  are  finished  in  wood, 
mellow  and  rich  of  hue,  suggestive  reminders  of 
Virginia  or  North  Carolina  or  Georgia  forests. 
An  old  spinning-wheel  with  a  bunch  of  flax  was 
near  the  fireplace,  over  which  hung  a  festoon  of 
rosaries  of  every  description  arranged  in  intricate 
lace-work  fashion.  The  abundant  book-shelves,  oc 
cupying  every  bit  of  available  wall  space,  were  hung 
with  golden-brown  curtains  of  a  soft  finished  ma 
terial  which  a  very  profound  masculine  ignorance 
cannot  further  describe.  Comfort,  simplicity,  and 
[20] 


Marion  Harland 

an  absence  of  ostentation  were  the  thoughts  promptly 
inspired  by  this  room.  Its  belongings  and  appoint 
ments  were  subordinated  to  the  kindly  presence  of 
the  mistress  of  Sunnybank,  which  maintains,  as  one 
might  expect,  the  hospitable  traditions  of  its  Vir 
ginia  prototype. 

The  published  pictures  of  Marion  Harland  very 
generally  give  the  lines  of  strength  which  one  sees 
in  her  face,  but  they  quite  as  generally  fail  to  repro 
duce  that  womanly  softness  of  countenance  which 
makes  her  so  approachable.  Her  voice — and  a  voice 
tells  more  than  any  words  it  utters — is  of  pleasing 
quality,  sincere,  not  low,  not  high,  but  of  moderate 
pitch,  and  informed  with  that  contagious  quality  of 
wholesomeness  which  a  very  large  constituency  of 
readers  instinctively  associate  with  its  owner. 

"You  won't  mind  my  knitting,  will  you?"  she 
asked,  taking  up  her  needles  and  a  ball  of  crimson 
wool.  "  It  is  near  Christmas,  and  this  is  a  gift  for 
a  friend." 

Then  her  deft  fingers  rapidly  plied  the  two 
needles  all  the  while  she  was  conversing  with  that 
entire  freedom  from  pre-occupation  which  makes  a 
man  wish  there  were  some  masculine  equivalent  for 
knitting  or  sewing. 

"  I  used  to  be  very  reticent  about  my  literary 
work,  even  my  past  work,"  she  said,  "  but  I  suppose 
I  have  become  more  sensible.  I  never  talk  about 
[21] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

anything  that  I  am  doing,  not  even  to  my  husband, 
though  I  frequently  take  counsel  with  him.  If  he 
sees  me  engaged  upon  a  piece  of  writing,  he  never 
asks  about  it  till  I  speak  of  it.  And  I  observe  the 
same  habit  with  him.  If  he  is  writing  a  sermon  I 
do  not  question  him.  It  has  been  for  years  a  mutual 
understanding  between  us.  I  remember  one  day  at 
a  reception  people  were  continually  saying  to  me, 
'  What  are  you  doing  now?  '  until  I  was  very  weary 
of  it.  I  went  up  to  Mr.  Stockton,  who  had  a  tired 
look  on  his  face.  '  I  suppose,  Mr.  Stockton,'  I  said, 
'  people  don't  dare  to  ask  you  what  literary  work 
you  are  engaged  upon  now  ? ' 

"  His  face  was  wistful  and  weary.  '  I  have  had 
forty-three  persons  ask  me  that  since  I  came  into 
this  room,'  he  answered,  '  and  one  even  asked  me 
how  much  I  made  a  year,  I  had  a  notion  to  say — ' 
What  he  had  a  notion  to  say,  of  course,  he  did  not 
say,  for  Mr.  Stockton  was  too  kind  and  gentle-spir 
ited  to  tell  a  man  capable  of  asking  such  a  question 
the  unpleasant  truth  it  would  be  well  for  him  to 
know." 

Like  many  another  lad  born  south  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,  the  writer  had  made  his  first  acquaint 
ance  with  fiction  in  the  pages  of  Marion  Harland. 
"  Moss  Side  "  was  one  of  the  first  books  he  ever 
read,  and  this  he  had  read  and  re-read  times  without 
number.  It  was  interesting,  therefore,  in  recount- 
[22] 


Marion  Harland 

ing  to  the  author  that  boyish  enthusiasm  for  the 
book,  to  hear  her  own  criticism  of  herself. 

"  I  outgrew  my  earlier  work,"  she  said ;  "  I  wrote 
my  first  novel  at  sixteen.  That  is  too  young.  I 
should  never  allow  a  daughter  of  mine  to  do  such 
a  thing.  It  seemed  to  be  liked.  Yet  I  was  entirely 
too  young  to  publish  anything.  An  author  should 
not  be  judged  by  her  first  books,  especially  if  she 
began  at  such  an  age." 

"  Wasn't  your  '  Marriage  Through  Prudential 
Motives,'  the  first  story  you  published,  reprinted  in 
England,  translated  into  French,  retranslated  back 
into  English,  and  reprinted  in  America?  " 

"  Yes.  I  published  it  anonymously.  The  New 
York  Albion  reprinted  the  English  version,  which 
had  been  translated  from  the  French.  The  Albion 
contained  nothing  but  English  reprints.  My  sketch 
had  appeared  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  and  natu 
rally,  when  The  Albion  republished  it,  Mr.  Godey 
came  out  and  claimed  it  as  his  story.  He  did  not 
know  who  wrote  it.  Nobody  did.  I  kept  it  wholly 
to  myself." 

"  That,  and  the  success  of  '  Alone,'  "  the  writer 
said,  "  is  almost  as  remarkable  as  the  success  of  the 
heroine  of  Mrs.  Augusta  Evans's  '  St.  Elmo.'  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  that  book  by  first  reading 
the  burlesque  on  it." 

1 '  St.  Twelmo ! '  "  laughed  my  hostess.     Reply- 
[23] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

ing  to  some  allusion  made  to  Mrs.  Evans's  style, 
she  said :  "Mrs.  Evans  is  one  of  my  friends.  She 
never  uses  in  conversation  any  kind  of  speech  but 
the  simplest." 

Speaking  of  her  earlier  work,  which  she  had  out 
grown,  Mrs.  Terhune  remarked :  "  I  don't  think 
it  did  any  harm.  I  think  the  sensational  literature 
which  abounds  now  is  harmful.  I  had  a  letter  only 
a  little  while  ago  from  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney. 
She  is  now  advanced  in  years,  but  she  still  pulls  a 
strong  bow.  She  expressed  herself  with  the  great 
est  vigor  against  this  devastating  flood  of  trashy 
novels." 

As  we  went  up  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Terhune's 
study  on  the  next  floor,  she  said :  "  Our  house  is 
itself  a  box,  with  additions  put  on  here  and  there 
as  we  needed  them." 

The  house,  nevertheless,  does  not  present  the  ap 
pearance  one  might  expect  from  the  method  of 
building.  It  is  commodious  and  harmonious.  The 
study,  with  a  beautiful  outlook  through  two  win 
dows  upon  Ramapo  Lake  and  the  encircling  moun 
tains,  which  are  spurs  of  the  Blue  Ridge  range,  had 
very  much  the  look  of  being  really  a  literary  work 
shop. 

"  Sit  down  in  that  old  chair,"  said  Mrs.  Ter 
hune.     "  It's   older   than   you   will   ever   be.     It 
belonged  to  my  great-great-grandmother." 
[24] 


Marion  Harland 

The  writer  sat  down,  interested  and  pleased,  in 
the  venerable  heirloom,  covered  with  a  quaint  pat 
terned  cretonne,  while  our  hostess  on  the  opposite 
side  of  her  desk,  which  is  placed  at  right  angles  to 
the  two  windows  between  which  it  stands,  recounted 
her  tribulations  with  temperance  fanatics. 

"  In  some  of  my  cooking  recipes  I  recommend 
liquors,  which  stirs  up  a  good  many  people  to  write 
to  me.  Some  years  ago  the  editor  of  a  religious 
paper  attacked  me  as  the  cause  of  thousands  of 
drunkards'  graves,  of  widows  and  fatherless  chil 
dren.  He  was  considerate  enough  also  to  send  me 
a  marked  copy  of  the  paper  containing  his  editorial. 
I  showed  it  to  Dr.  Irenaeus  Prime  of  The  Observer, 
who  came  to  my  defence.  He  wrote  a  reply  to 
the  other  editor,  in  which  he  said  he  thought  the 
very  best  thing  you  could  do  with  brandy  was  to 
burn  it,  and  that  the  cooking  of  liquor  evaporated 
most  of  the  alcohol,  so  that  it  couldn't  be  intoxi 
cating. 

"  My  average  mail  for  The  North  American 
syndicate  is  five  hundred  letters  a  week.  That  makes 
over  twenty  thousand  letters  a  year.  Besides  these 
I  have  my  personal  correspondence,  which  is  large. 
I  could  not  get  through  with  it  all  but  for  the  help 
of  an  exceptionally  good  secretary.  Then  I  am 
strong,  and  work  systematically.  I  write  an  abstract 
of  my  reply  to  every  letter,  either  on  the  envelope  or 
[25] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

a  piece  of  paper  attached  to  it.  My  private  corre 
spondence  I  write  wholly  myself.  People  write  to 
me  about  everything.  Some  of  the  letters  I  cannot 
answer.  Some  want  me  to  write  the  story  of  their 
lives,  and  divide  the  profits  with  them.  Others  wish 
me  to  write  stories  the  plots  of  which  they  offer  to 
furnish  on  the  same  terms.  They  are  not  infre 
quently  offended  when  I  decline.  One  such  I  told  I 
could  not  write  on  all  the  subjects  I  had  in  my  own 
mind  if  I  lived  for  a  hundred  years.  One  projector 
of  an  English  paper  wanted  me  to  contribute  for  a 
year  without  compensation,  with  the  promise  that 
after  that  I  should  be  paid  better  than  I  ever  had 
been  paid  by  any  paper." 

On  the  desk  was  a  collection  of  paper-weights. 
"  It's  a  fad  of  mine,"  she  said.  "  My  friends  are 
continually  sending  all  kinds  of  paper-weights  to 
me.  I  collected  the  rosaries  you  noticed  down 
stairs  over  the  fireplace  in  the  East  when  travelling 
with  my  son  in  1893-94." 

Her  latest  novel,  "  Dr.  Dale,"  was  written  in 
collaboration  with  this  son,  a  New  York  journalist. 

Out  of  one  of  the  many  bookcases  in  the  room 
Mrs.  Terhune  took  a  green  morocco  case.  "  This 
is  the  only  illustrated  copy  in  existence,"  she  said, 
taking  out  of  the  case  a  beautifully  bound  volume 
of  her  novel,  "His  Great  Self."  "An  intimate 
friend,  the  present  owner  of  Westover,  sent  me 
[26] 


Marion  Harland 

these  illustrations.  All  the  pictures  are  taken  from 
the  original  portraits." 

Besides  many  other  photographs  it  contained  a 
photograph  of  "  King  Carter,"  of  Colonel  Byrd, 
and  one  of  beautiful  Evelyn  Byrd. 

"  That  picture  of  Evelyn  Byrd  on  the  wall  there," 
she  said,  pointing  to  a  framed  water-color,  "  was 
made  from  the  original  at  Westover.  The  present 
owner  of  the  grand  old  homestead  gave  it  to  me." 

Out  in  the  trees  between  the  house  and  the  lake, 
as  we  talked,  squirrels  were  racing  with  that  acute 
vitality  which  seems  to  belong  peculiarly  to  them. 
Mrs.  Terhune  pointed  to  them  and  said :  "  The 
place  is  alive  with  squirrels.  Although  Dr.  Ter 
hune  was  a  great  sportsman  years  ago,  he  never 
touches  a  gun  now.  Indeed,  a  gun  is  never  shot 
off  on  our  place.  In  the  summer  it  is  perfectly 
choral  with  birds.  We  have  about  fifty  acres  here 
and  twenty  on  the  west  shore  of  the  lake,  and  the 
birds  seem  to  know  they  are  safe  with  us.  That  is  my 
daughter's  country  house  over  there,  opposite — Mrs. 
Christine  Herrick.  She  calls  her  place  '  Outlook.' 
There  is  a  superb  view  from  it.  She  is  often  here, 
and  we  have,  besides,  a  very  pleasant  society  among 
our  neighbors.  Another  daughter,  Mrs.  Van  de 
Water,  lives  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake." 

A  few  minutes  before  the  writer  left  Sunnybank 
Dr.  Terhune  returned,  giving  a  cordial  greeting 
[27] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

and  subsequently  taking  the  writer  into  the  car 
riage  with  Mrs.  Terhune,  who  had  a  call  to  make 
on  the  way  to  the  Erie  station. 

A  little  one-story  house  was  seen  by  the  drive 
way.  "  That's  the  doctor's  den,"  said  she.  "  He 
thinks  there's  no  place  just  like  it  in  the  world. 
It's  an  Adirondack  cabin." 

As  the  carriage  crossed  the  bridge  Mrs.  Terhune 
pointed  to  the  villas  scattered  along  the  western 
slope  beyond  the  lake.  "  When  we  came  here  thirty 
years  ago,"  she  said,  "  we  were  the  only  '  city  peo 
ple  '  here ;  all  these  have  followed  us." 

"  And  how  did  you  happen  to  come?  " 

"  Dr.  Terhune  was  a  great  sportsman,"  said  his 
wife,  "  and  used  to  hunt  and  fish  all  about  this 
country.  Besides,  he  had  a  clerical  friend  who  was 
settled  over  the  old  Colonial  church  here." 

Our  author's  zealous  studies  in  the  field  of  biogra 
phy  and  American  Colonial  literature  have  borne 
fruit  in  her  series  of  "  Literary  Hearthstones  "  and 
"  Colonial  Homesteads."  In  recognition  of  her 
Colonial  researches  she  was  the  first  woman  admitted 
to  membership  in  the  Virginia  Historical  Society; 
she  is  also  a  vice-president  of  the  Society  for  the 
Preservation  of  Virginia  Antiquities,  and  in  1894 
was  appointed  a  delegate  from  the  American  His 
torical  Society  to  the  Historical  Congress  held  at 
The  Hague. 

[28] 


Marion  Harland 

Her  immense  correspondence,  through  a  large 
newspaper  syndicate,  keeps  her  in  touch  with  all 
classes  of  American  women.  Of  this  branch  of  her 
work  she  speaks  with  enthusiasm.  "  It  is  like  keep 
ing  my  finger  upon  the  pulse  of  universal  woman 
hood,"  she  says,  feelingly.  "  The  labor  is  a  continual 
pleasure." 

It  is  in  large  measure  to  this  native  fund  of 
wholesome  and  healthy  human  sentiment  that  Mar 
ion  Harland's  wellnigh  unparalleled  early  success 
was  due.  It  was  a  privilege  to  see  her  in  the  after 
noon  of  life  unspoiled  by  a  lifetime  of  such  success 
as  has  come  to  few  writers  in  a  generation,  and  still 
radiating  the  potent  personality  of  a  good  woman. 


[291 


Berffia  Runkle 
In  New  Tork  City 


BY    MISS    RUNKLE 

Born  in  Berkeley  Heights,  New  Jtney 

The  Helmet  of  Navarre. 


II 


Bertha  Runkle 
In  New  York  City 

WHILE  conversing  with  Miss  Runkle  it 
is  difficult  occasionally  not  to  forget  that 
one  is  speaking  with  one  of  the  popular 
authors  of  the  day,  whose  success  with  a  single 
novel  has  been  such  as  to  make  the  contemporary 
sales  of  "Pickwick  Papers"  and  "Adam  Bede " 
seem  absurdly  small.  In  the  first  place,  the  author 
of  "  The  Helmet  of  Navarre  "  is  disproportionately 
young,  and  in  the  second  place,  the  flattering  defer 
ence  of  her  manner  is  apt  to  mislead  one  into  a 
dogmatic  statement  of  opinion  ill-according  with 
the  proprieties  prescribed  by  renown. 

Indeed,  even  while  the  victim  of  an  interview, 
Miss  Runkle  solves  the  continuous  problem  of 
causing  her  interlocutor  to  forget  the  authoress  in 
the  woman  in  a  manner  which,  save  for  anachro 
nistic  difficulties,  might  have  been  recommended  for 
imitation  to  Mme.  de  Stael.  Not  only  mentally, 
but  also  physically,  the  chronicler  of  "  Etienne  de 
Mar's  "  adventures  is  above  the  stature  of  the  ma 
jority  of  her  sex,  which  partially,  at  least,  reconciles 
one  to  the  inconsistencies  of  feminine  description  of 
sword-play  and  bloodshed. 
[33] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  novels  which  I  like," 
she  remarked  when,  toward  the  end  of  a  visit,  in 
the  fear  of  a  lack  of  "  copy,"  the  conversation  had 
been  brought  heroically  round  to  an  interrogatory 
basis,  "  the  romantic  style,  such  as  I  myself  write, 
and  the  exactly  opposite  sort,  the  novels  of  manners 
and  character,  such  as  Miss  Austen's,  whose  books 
I  read  over  at  least  once  every  year." 

Miss  Runkle's  home  is  in  an  apartment  in  New 
York  with  her  mother,  Mrs.  Cornelius  A.  Runkle. 
Consistent  with  the  inconsistencies  of  authorship, 
the  disciple  of  Scott  and  Dumas  writes  of  the 
adventures  of  the  cavaliers  of  the  picturesque,  un 
comfortable  sixteenth  century  in  a  prosaic,  mod 
ern  apartment,  with  all  the  latest  "  conveniences." 
Books,  however,  are  everywhere  in  evidence,  form 
ing  a  bridge  to  the  most  distant  lands  and  centuries, 
and  reminding  the  visitor  that  he  is  in  a  home  where 
they  are  not  only  written,  but  also  read.  To  those 
who  have  had  to  do  with  the  successful  authors  of 
the  day,  especially  English  and  American,  it  is  a 
matter  for  continuous  surprise  and  disappointment 
how  completely  in  most  cases  they  have  preserved 
themselves  from  the  infection  of  culture  and  from 
the  consequent  widening  of  their  circumscribed 
horizon. 

"Americans  read  books  and  attend  the  theatre 
for  the  purpose  of  being  amused,"  said  Miss  Runkle, 
[34l 


Bertha  Runkle 

in  the  course  of  an  attempt  to  analyze  the  baffling 
secret  of  success.  "  Certainly  they  do  not  go  to  the 
play  in  order  to  hear  serious  questions  discussed,  or 
classic  literature  declaimed,  as  they  still  like  to  do 
in  Germany  and  France.  Whether  this  taste  will 
ever  change  is  more  than  any  prophet  can  foretell. 
One  thing,  however,  appears  certain,  and  that  is  that 
it  is  men  who  care  for  the  romantic  novel  and  play, 
while  women  prefer  the  analytical  and  problem  sort. 
Men,  I  suppose,  have,  so  to  speak,  troubles  enough 
of  their  own,  and  take  their  recreation  in  a  form  that 
will  divert  them  from  serious  thoughts." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  chose  a  time  and  place 
so  different  from  your  own  experience  for  the  scene 
and  period  of  your  story?" 

"  Ah,  well,  you  see  I  have  had  no  '  experience ' 
worthy  the  name.  I  should  not  have  had  the  pre 
sumption  to  write  of  my  own  time,  and  the  men  and 
women  about  me,  because  I  am  too  ignorant,  and 
too  limited.  I  have  had  too  little  chance  to  observe. 
But  all  the  past  is  at  my  service.  I  can  enter  that 
field  on  even  terms  with  any  veteran,  if  I  have  the 
seeing  eye.  And  if  you  live  yourself  into  that  past, 
your  story  ought  to  be  as  vivid,  as  '  realistic,'  as  any 
tale  of  Fifth  Avenue  or  the  slums." 

"  Then  you  have  a  special  taste  for  French  his 
tory?" 

"  For  all  history.  Ever  since  I  could  read,  I  have 
[35] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'Their  Homes 

read  history  with  unfailing  delight.  I  have  always 
been  allowed  to  browse  in  the  library  where  I  would, 
and  I  know  French  well  enough  to  have  found  great 
pleasure  in  old  memoirs,  and  half -forgotten  tales, 
and  chronicles,  and  biographies.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  know  old  Paris  better  than  I  know  new  New  York. 
But,  in  fairness  to  me,  you  must  remember  that  the 
'  Helmet '  is  not,  and  never  was  meant  to  be,  a  '  his 
torical  novel.'  It  is  simply  a  story  of  love,  and  poli 
tics,  and  adventure,  which  happened — really  hap 
pened,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned — in  the  Paris  of 
Henry  of  Navarre,  and  in  which,  by  the  accident  of 
circumstance,  that  very  amusing  gentleman  was  con 
cerned,  to  some  small  extent." 

"  And  the  original  idea  for  the  book,  Miss  Run- 
kle — how  did  you  get  that?" 

"  Well,  that  came  to  me  in  a  rather  peculiar 
way,  through  a  dream  that  I  had  a  number  of  years 
ago.  I  have  always  had  the  habit  of  dreaming  ex 
tremely  vividly,  so  that  often  in  the  morning  I  can 
hardly  distinguish  between  reality  and  what  I  have 
dreamed.  On  this  memorable  night  I  thought  I 
was  awakened  by  a  brilliant  light  shining  in  my 
room,  although  I  could  not  make  out  whence  it 
came.  Getting  up,  I  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  to  see  a  wall  a  few  feet  away  from  me 
with  three  men  at  another  window.  Even  in  my 
dream  it  struck  me  as  strange  that  I  had  never 
[36] 


Bertha  Runkle 

noticed  this  wall  before,  and  I  determined  to  in 
vestigate  the  matter  in  the  morning.  That  was  the 
extent  of  the  dream,  but  it  was  so  vivid  that  it 
made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  and  I  began  won 
dering  how  I  could  make  use  of  it  for  a  story.  The 
idea  then  occurred  to  me  of  a  lad  coming  up  to 
Paris  and  looking  out  of  the  window  as  I  had  done. 
The  lightning  I  invented,  as,  had  the  light  been 
actually  in  the  room,  he  would  of  course  not  have 
been  able  to  see  the  faces  of  the  men.  From  that 
as  a  germ  the  whole  of  the  book  developed." 
"  How  long  were  you  actually  writing  it?" 
"  It  is  impossible  to  answer  that  question  cate 
gorically,  as  I  wrote  and  rewrote  the  first  four  or 
five  chapters  several  times  at  intervals  before  I  set 
tled  down  earnestly  to  finish  the  book.  I  had 
always  had  the  desire  to  write  a  novel  in  the  un 
certain  future,  and  when  the  conception  of  the  story 
came  to  me,  although  I  couldn't  get  it  into  shape, 
I  felt  that  there  was  something  there,  and  for  that 
reason  I  couldn't  let  it  alone,  but  would  take  it  up 
every  now  and  then  anew.  When  I  actually  began 
continuous  work,  however,  it  went  rapidly;  taking 
only  about  four  months  in  all,  I  think,  to  complete 
the  story.  Then  I  took  my  courage  in  both  hands 
and  submitted  the  pages  to  The  Century  Company 
to  see  if  they  would  print  my  book.  The  possibility 
of  its  appearing  in  the  magazine  never  occurred  to 
[37] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

me,  as  I  had  been  told  that  they  never  published  a 
serial  by  an  unknown  author.  In  a  very  few  days 
I  received  a  letter  asking  me  to  come  down  to  see 
the  editor  in  charge,  who  offered  to  bring  the  story 
out  first  in  the  magazine.  It  seems  they  were  anxious 
just  at  that  time  to  get  hold  of  a  romantic  serial,  and 
Mr.  Gilder,  who  was  in  England,  had  tried  to  make 
arrangements  for  one  over  there,  but  had  been  dis 
appointed  at  the  last  moment.  So  everything  hap 
pened  to  favor  me,  and  the  first  instalment  of  the 
story  appeared  in  August,  although  it  had  only  been 
accepted  in  May." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  at  work  on  a  new  story,  are 
you  not,  Miss  Runkle?  That  seems  to  be  the  fate 
of  everyone  who  writes  a  successful  book." 

"  Yes,  I  have  begun  another  novel,  but  I  would 
rather  not  talk  about  it,  as  I  have  a  superstition  that 
what  one  talks  about  never  gets  accomplished." 

"  How  did  you  feel  about  the  book  when  it  was 
finished?  Had  you  faith  in  it,  or  had  you  lost  all 
confidence  that  it  would  succeed,  like  the  majority 
of  authors  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  have  lost  confidence,  I  think,  had 
I  not  read  part  of  it  to  my  mother  and  to  one  or 
two  friends,  who  all  encouraged  me  to  finish  it. 
When  I  am  writing  it  seems  to  me  most  excellent, 
but  after  it  is  once  written  I  go  to  the  other  ex 
treme  and  imagine  it  is  absolute  trash.  One  thing 
[381 


Bertha  Runkle 

I  should  certainly  hot  like  to  undertake  is  to  begin 
the  publication  of  a  serial  before  it  was  written  com 
pletely.  Imagine  getting  half  way  through,  and 
discovering  that  the  story  absolutely  refused  to  work 
out  as  planned!  You  see  one's  hero  sometimes  has 
a  way  of  thwarting  altogether  one's  original  plans 
concerning  him.  How  do  you  account  for  that?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  by  the  influence  of  some  girl  upon 
him,"  the  writer  replied,  and  my  hostess  laughed 
her  genuine,  whole-souled  laugh,  that  serves  to  put 
one  into  pleasant  conceit  of  one's  wit. 

Miss  Runkle's  mother,  by  the  way,  is  a  well- 
known  figure  among  the  literary  women  of  New 
York,  though  she  has  published  comparatively  little 
over  her  own  signature.  For  many  years  she  held 
the  position  of  reader  for  a  prominent  publishing 
house,  and  has  edited  several  volumes  of  prose. 
She  has  also  conducted  classes  in  New  York,  and 
has  delivered  lectures  on  literary  subjects. 

"  I  was  born  under  a  lucky  star,"  said  the  young 
lady,  as  my  pleasant  visit  ended,  "  but  the  best  of 
my  good  fortune  is  that  I  have  my  mother  for  my 
kindest  and  severest  critic." 


[39] 


Agnes  Repplier 

In  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 


BY    MISS    REPPLIER 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 

Books  and  Men. 

Points  of  View. 

In  the  Dozy  Hours. 

Essays  in  Idleness. 

Essays  in  Miniature. 

Philadelphia,  the  Place  and  Its  People. 

The  Fireside  Sphinx. 


Ill 

Agnes  Repplier 

In  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 

HE  has  revived  the  art,  wellnigh  lost  in 
these  days,  of  the  essayist.  There  is  no 
province  of  the  essayist  that  she  has  not 
touched,  and  there  is  nothing  which  she  has  touched 
that  she  has  not  adorned.  Her  wisdom  is  illumi 
nated  by  her  wit,  and  her  wit  is  controlled  by  her 
wisdom."  This  is  the  partial  characterization  of 
the  contributions  made  by  Agnes  Repplier  to  Ameri 
can  letters,  as  delivered  by  Dr.  Horace  Howard 
Furness  on  the  22d  of  February,  1902,  when  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  honored  her  with  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters.  While  the  scholarly 
old  gentleman  was  speaking,  the  whole  of  that  great 
gathering  remained  standing,  and  the  heartiest  ap 
plause  met  his  closing  sentence:  "Into  thousands 
of  homes  her  voice  has  brought  learning  and  eleva 
tion,  purity  and  refinement,  and  her  Fireside  Sphinx, 
with  well-sheathed  claws,  will  play  immortally  in 
the  fields  of  Asphodel  with  Lesbia's  sparrow." 

Slight  and  somewhat  gray,  with  kindly  expres 
sion  and   the  most  genial,   genuine  manner,   Miss 
Repplier  is  the  very  embodiment  of  that  good  sense 
\vhich  she  is  said  most  to  admire  in  both  men  and 
[43] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

women,  and  of  that  artistic  temperament  which 
shows  so  clearly  in  every  one  of  her  delightful 
essays,  as  well  as  in  everything  with  which  she  has 
surrounded  herself  in  her  Philadelphia  apartments. 
There,  too,  is  her  quaint  humor,  a  constant  quantity, 
coming  again  to  the  surface  as,  looking  down  into 
the  city  streets  from  her  windows,  she  said :  "  Phila 
delphia  is  not  pretty,  and  it  is  badly  run,  and  has 
a  wretched  climate,  but  it  does  offer  one  pleasant 
people  and  delicious  butter. 

"  I  am  not  really  a  Philadelphian,  you  know," 
she  continued.  "  The  mere  chance  that  brought  my 
father  here,  and  allowed  me  to  see  the  light  here 
first,  does  not  make  me  one.  Just  residence,  and 
only  residence,  can  never  make  your  true  Philadel 
phian.  Of  course,  I  have  lived  here  most  of  my 
life,  but  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  I  may  be 
said  to  have  no  real  home,  which  is  not  saying  that 
I  would  not  like  to  have  one,  for  I  should,  and 
very  much;  but  when  that  home  comes  I  hope  it 
will  be  in  the  country,  and  not  all  cramped  up  in 
a  city." 

Whether  they  seem  to  her  home  or  not,  Miss 
Repplier's  rooms  at  1900  Chestnut  Street  are  very 
attractive.  The  morning  sun,  given  freer  play  over 
the  green  yard  of  the  old  marble  mansion  across 
the  street,  floods  them  with  warmth  and  cheeriness, 
bringing  out  the  colors  of  the  hangings  and  every 
[441 


Agnes  Repplier 

least  detail  of  the  pictures  that  crowd  the  walls. 
Many  of  these  are  photographs  of  the  works  of  the 
old  masters,  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  for  the  most  part, 
but  the  majority  are  of  "  the  suave  and  puissant 
cat." 

On  the  landing  of  the  stairs  the  cat-pictures 
begin,  and  all  about  the  room  they  continue ;  Mme. 
Ronner's  furry  pussies  and  the  cosey  creations  of 
Miss  Bonsall's  brush.  On  the  table  sits  in  state  a 
great  china  Agrippina;  across  one  of  the  bookcases 
staggers  another,  its  paws  full  of  struggling  kittens ; 
by  it  lies  Steinlen's  "  Dessins  sans  Paroles  des 
Chats,"  and  the  entire  top  of  a  little  inlaid  writing- 
desk  is  covered  so  thick  with  diminutive  bronze  cats 
of  all  climes,  ages,  and  sizes  that  there  remains  room 
for  not  one  more. 

But  the  occupant  loves  more  than  cats.  There 
are  many  pictures  of  children,  recalling  that  first 
of  her  Atlantic  essays  on  "  Children,  Past  and  Pres 
ent,"  while  the  great  case  of  books  that  stands 
opposite  the  desk  where  Miss  Repplier  does  her 
writing  shows  often  the  names  of  Shakespeare, 
Scott,  and  Keats — and  Charles  Lamb,  of  course. 

"  I  am  just  about  to  say  good-by  to  all  of  this 
for  a  time,"  said  Miss  Repplier.  "  In  a  few  days 
now  I  sail  for  Europe.  The  summer  I  expect  to 
divide  between  Touraine  and  Brittany,  with  Lom- 
bardv  later,  and  Rome  for  the  winter.  I  shall  not 
[45] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

go  to  England  if  I  can  possibly  avoid  it — though 
once  upon  a  time  I  thought  I  should  rather  live  in 
London  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  All  told, 
I  hope  to  be  abroad  some  seventeen  months,  though 
I  may  be  back  within  the  year. 

"  It  is  very  seldom  that  I  feel  I  can  take  a  whole 
winter  for  a  trip  like  this.  You  see  I  cannot  often 
get  so  far  away  from  my  base  of  supplies — my  books. 
If  I  could  only  write  all  out  of  my  head  now,  as 
some  lucky  people  can  do,  it  would  be  very  different. 
As  for  me,  I  can  no  more  learn  to  do  it  than  I  can 
write  fiction,  and  I  assure  you  that  that  is  quite 
out  of  the  question.  The  only  book  I  ever  did  all 
on  one  subject  was  my  '  Sphinx,'  and  it  took  me 
quite  seven  years  to  finish  that." 

Miss  Repplier's  plans  for  work  while  she  is 
abroad  are  not  extensive.  Her  weekly  "  little 
creeds  "  for  Life  are  to  be  continued,  and  she  has 
yet  to  finish  two  of  six  essays  which  had  been  prom 
ised  to  Mr.  Alden  for  Harper 's  Magazine,  but 
beyond  this  her  only  work  will  be  upon  two  vol 
umes  of  essays  which  are  to  be  brought  out  by 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  in  the  fall  of  1903.  One 
is  to  be  made  up  of  what  Miss  Repplier  calls  "  my 
customary  excursions  into  literature,"  and  the  other 
of  essays  rather  historical  than  literary,  the  titles  of 
"The  Pilgrim"  and  "The  Headsman,"  already 
chosen,  being  typical  of  those  which  are  to  follow. 
[46] 


Agnes  Repplier 

Speaking  of  her  work,  and  apropos  of  a  remark 
which  made  mention  of  some  quotations  of  which 
she  had  made  use  in  one  of  her  essays,  Miss  Rep- 
plier  said:  "  Isn't  that  an  awful  habit  of  mine,  that 
quoting?  Really,  I  think  it  is  vicious,  and  I  prom 
ise  you  I  am  trying  very  hard  to  overcome  it.  The 
great  trouble  is  that  half  the  time  when  I  start  to 
say  something  I  remember  that  someone  else  has 
said  it  already,  and  so  much  better  than  I  could 
ever  hope  to. 

"  No,  my  memory  is  not  so  very  good.  It  is 
merely  that  I  recall  clearly  the  books  I  read  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  My  theory  is  that  one  always 
remembers  what  one  likes,  and  very  seldom  what 
one  dislikes,  and  that,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  one  is  apt 
to  live  for  the  last  half  of  life  on  the  memory  of 
books  read  in  the  first  half." 

Of  that  childhood  of  hers  and  its  reading  Miss 
Repplier  talks  very  amusingly.  She  is  very  sure  she 
must  have  been  an  exception  to  the  rule  for  genius, 
as  she  was  so  far  from  precocious  that  at  nine  she 
was  still  unable  to  read.  "  At  last,"  she  says,  "  I 
learned  my  letters  with  infinite  tribulation  out  of  a 
horrible  little  book  called  '  Reading  Without  Tears.' 
It  was  a  brown  book,  and  had  on  its  cover  two 
stout  and  unclothed  cupids  holding  the  volume  open 
between  them  and  making  an  ostentatious  pretence 
of  enjoyment.  It  might  have  been  possible  for 
[47] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

cupids  who  needed  no  wardrobes  and  sat  comfort 
ably  on  clouds  to  like  such  lessons,  but  for  an  or 
dinary  little  girl  in  frock  and  pinafore  they  were 
simply  heartbreaking. 

"  Had  it  only  been  my  good  fortune  to  be  born 
twenty  years  later  spelling  would  have  been  left  out 
of  my  early  discipline,  and  I  should  have  found 
congenial  occupation  in  sticking  pins  or  punching 
mysterious  bits  of  clay  at  a  kindergarten.  But  when 
I  was  young  the  world  was  sadly  unenlightened  in 
these  matters;  the  plain  duty  of  every  child  was  to 
learn  how  to  read,  and  the  more  hopelessly  dull  I 
showed  myself  to  be  the  more  imperative  became 
the  need  of  forcing  some  information  into  me.  For 
two  bitter  years  I  had  for  my  constant  companion 
that  hated  '  reader '  which  began  with  such  isolated 
statements  as  '  Anne  had  a  cat '  and  ended  with  a 
dismal  story  about  a  little  African  boy  named 
Sam." 

From  the  first,  however,  it  seems  that  Mrs.  Rep- 
plier  was  a  firm  believer  in  her  daughter's  future. 
"  You,  Agnes,  can  write,"  she  used  to  say,  and  at 
the  earliest  moment  possible  Agnes  tried  to  fulfil 
those  hopes.  She  wrote  first  for  the  daily  papers, 
then  for  a  religious  monthly  in  New  York,  and 
then  at  last  sent  an  essay  to  The  Atlantic.  To  this 
day  she  is  grateful  to  Mr.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 
who  was  at  that  time  editor  of  the  magazine,  for 
[48] 


Agnes  Repplier 

accepting  and  publishing  "  Children,  Past  and  Pres 
ent,"  and  tells  many  stories  of  his  encouragement, 
which  did  so  much,  she  says,  to  smooth  the  first 
miles  of  the  road  of  letters. 

"  One  gets  some  idea  of  the  sort  of  man — and 
friend — which  Mr.  Aldrich  was,"  she  continued, 
"  by  remembering  that  it  was  he  who  found  and 
helped  to  their  first  real  successes  Elizabeth  Rob- 
bins,  who  is  now  Mrs.  Pennell,  and  Amelie  Rives. 
I  recall,  by  the  way,  how  he  once  said  to  me  of  the 
'  Brother  to  Dragons,'  '  Miss  Rives  will  never  do 
anything  better  than  this.'  She  never  did  anything 
quite  so  good." 

There  is  another  story  which  Miss  Repplier  tells, 
somewhat  at  her  own  expense,  though  it  also  seems 
to  support  her  belief  that  she  is  not  a  Philadelphian. 
It  seems  that  one  of  the  first  readers  of  her  early 
essays  in  The  Atlantic  was  Dr.  Furness,  Sr.,  the 
father  of  the  editor  of  "  The  Variorum  Shake 
speare."  Going  to  Miss  Irwin,  now  President  of 
Radcliffe  College,  Cambridge,  he  asked:  "Do  you 
happen  to  know  a  Boston  woman  who  is  contribut 
ing  to  The  Atlantic  over  the  signature  of  '  Agnes 
Repplier'?"  "Bless  you,"  replied  Miss  Irwin, 
"  she  lives  at  your  very  door.  Once  she  was  a 
student  in  my  school  in  Philadelphia,  and  she  lives 
there  to-day." 

[49] 


Margaret  Del  and 
In  Boston,  Massachusetts 


BY    MRS.    DELANO 
Born  in  Allegheny,  Pennsylvania 

John  Ward,  Preacher. 

The  Old  Garden  and  Other  Verses. 

Sidney. 

The  Story  of  a  Child. 

Philip  and  His  Wife. 

Old  Chester  Tales. 


IV 

Margaret  Deland 

In  Bostony  Massachusetts 


IT  is  scarcely  fifteen  years  since  "  John  Ward, 
Preacher,"  shook  some  of  our  theological  and 
domestic  traditions  to  their  centre.  The  power 
of  characterization,  the  gifts  of  dialogue  and  de 
scription,  and  the  knowledge  of  life  and  of  how  to 
tell  a  story  that  would  ordinarily  have  absorbed  the 
critic  and  the  reader  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
theological  dogma  the  book  questioned,  and  which 
a  large  and  hysterical  part  of  the  novel-reading  pub 
lic  insisted  upon  confounding  with  the  fundamental 
truths  of  Christianity. 

The  attitude  of  critics  and  readers,  however,  did 
not  prevent  "  John  Ward's  "  translation  into  Dutch, 
French,  and  German;  or,  fortunately,  did  not  pre 
vent  Mrs.  Deland  from  holding  steadily  to  her 
ideals  of  inspiration.  For  it  is  this  clear  and  fear 
less  insight,  and  large,  sympathetic  tolerance  united 
with  simplicity  that  give  distinction  to  style  which 
make  her  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  significant 
figures  in  the  American  world  of  letters. 

The  writer's  talk  with  her  was  happily  unleav- 
[531 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'Their  Homes 

ened  by  the  mission  of  the  reporter  on  the  one  hand, 
or  the  constraint  of  talking  for  publication  on  the 
other.  She  was  met  in  her  own  home,  as  any 
stranger  might  have  met  her,  who  felt  that  a  visit 
to  Boston  would  be  incomplete  without  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  the  author  of  "  John  Ward," 
"Philip  and  His  Wife,"  "Old  Chester  Tales," 
"  The  Wisdom  of  Fools,"  and  "  Sidney." 

The  spotless  white  steps  and  brass  knocker  had 
a  glint  of  Old  Chester  in  them ;  and  the  lofty  hall, 
with  its  spiral  stairway,  the  fireplace,  in  which 
great  logs  were  burning,  a  glimpse  of  flowering 
plants  through  the  glass  doors  leading  from  the 
dining-room,  and  a  delightful  impression  of  space, 
freshness,  and  delicate  reserves  had  the  charm  of 
something  remotely  familiar  in  surroundings  seen 
for  the  first  time.  Mrs.  Deland's  home  is  as  in 
dividual  as  her  work  or  herself  and  conveys  the 
charm  of  associations  garnered  from  the  homes  she 
has  made  real  in  her  books,  with  the  suggestion  and 
the  stimulus  of  a  broad  and  artistic  culture  ex 
pressed  through  color  and  form,  through  habits  of 
taste  and  occupation — the  nameless  atmosphere  that 
penetrates  and  envelops  the  home  of  intellectual  and 
sympathetic  activity. 

Those  who  know  that  Mrs.  Deland  was  born  in 
Pittsburg  have  had  much  amusement  in  the  criti 
cisms  that  trace  a  distinct  relation  between  the 
[54] 


Margaret  Deland 

moral  genius  of  her  books  and  her  New  England 
origin,  and  the  inheritances  of  birth  and  environ 
ment,  and  read  a  personal  record  into  the  varying 
psychological  problems  of  "  John  Ward,  Preacher," 
"Philip  and  His  Wife,"  and  "Sidney."  Mrs. 
Deland  says  her  life  has  been  too  uneventful  to 
claim  public  interest,  and  too  happy  to  make  his 
tory.  On  the  death  of  her  parents  she  was  taken 
into  the  family  of  her  uncle,  the  Hon.  Bakewell 
Campbell,  of  Pittsburg,  and  brought  up  by  her 
uncle  and  aunt  with  a  tenderness  that  supplied 
what  might  have  come  from  the  father  and  mother 
she  had  never  known.  Mrs.  Campbell  took  great 
care  that  her  adopted  daughter  was  provided  with 
the  best  books.  All  of  Scott  was  open  to  her,  and 
very  much  of  Hawthorne;  and  when  she  was  a  lit 
tle  girl  parts  of  the  Spectator  and  Tatler  were 
given  her  to  read,  but  her  aunt  apparently  paid  no 
attention  to  the  "  very  lurid  imaginings  "  the  child 
began  at  the  age  of  nine  to  set  down. 

This  judicious  discouragement  of  self-conscious 
ness  and  intelligent  concern  for  what  she  read  are 
the  early  influences  that  have  fostered  Mrs.  De- 
land's  sense  of  the  obligations  and  ideals  of  creative 
work  and  laid  the  foundations  of  her  unaffected 
and  admirable  English.  She  herself  considers  it  a 
great  mistake  to  encourage  the  literary  efforts  of 
children,  believing  that  it  fills  them  with  self-con- 
[55] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  rfheir  Homes 

sciousness,  and  also  that  the  creative  impulse  if 
noticed  too  much  in  youth  very  quickly  burns  itself 
out. 

In  answer  to  a  question  as  to  the  influence  col 
lege  life  had  had  upon  her  intellectual  development, 
the  writer  was  told  that  she  had  never  been  to  col 
lege.  "  When  I  was  seventeen  I  went  to  Pelham 
Priory  to  boarding-school — a  delightful  old  school 
kept  by  English  ladies.  In  those  days  the  girls  had 
no  examinations,  and  they  studied  or  not,  as  they 
wanted  to.  They  were  instructed  in  deportment 
and  religion,  to  respect  their  elders  and  betters,  to 
enter  and  leave  the  room  with  dignity,  to  fear  God, 
and  to  disregard  man  as  much  as  possible,  for,  as 
the  housekeeper  remarked  to  me  once,  '  The  hac- 
tions  of  the  young  ladies  in  regard  to  young  gentle 
men  are  so  hexceedingly  silly.'  Other  things  were 
incidental,  and  might  or  might  not  be  acquired, 
according  to  the  inclination  of  the  pupils.  My  in 
clination,  I  suppose,  was  neither  for  religion  nor 
deportment,  and  certainly  not  for  the  ordinary 
branches  of  education.  The  result  is  that  I  am  a 
very  ill-educated  woman  to-day.  After  this  episode 
I  studied  at  the  Cooper  Institute  for  a  year,  and 
then  taught  mechanical  and  industrial  drawing  at 
the  New  York  Normal  College." 

It  was  soon  after  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  pub 
lished  her  volume  of  poems  that  Mrs.  Deland  began 
[56] 


to  write  "  John  Ward."  She  was  nearly  two  years 
in  writing  it.  In  fact,  she  rewrote  the  whole  book 
four  times,  and  the  chapter  including  John  Ward's 
death-bed — which,  in  its  reticence  and  omissions, 
reaches  a  high  level  of  art — over  and  over  again. 
In  "Philip  and  His  Wife,"  "The  Wisdom  of 
Fools,"  "  Sidney,"  indeed  in  everything  that  Mrs. 
Deland  has  written,  it  is  not  what  happens,  but 
how  it  affects  the  people  to  whom  it  happens,  that 
interests  her.  The  tendencies  and  problems  of  life 
— the  tendencies  making  the  problems — are  her 
chief  concern. 

The  popularity  of  "  Old  Chester  Tales "  has 
been  a  surprise  to  her,  and  that  people  should  be 
fond  of  so  irritating  a  person  as  Dr.  Lavendar 
something  of  a  puzzle.  He,  by  the  way,  is  com 
posite;  partly  made  up  of  two  old  uncles  of  Mrs. 
Deland's,  partly  the  result  of  unconscious  cerebra 
tion,  the  whole  passed  through  a  conscious  imagi 
native  medium.  "  The  Child's  Mother,"  one  of  the 
most  finished  of  the  "  Old  Chester  Tales,"  had  its 
inception  in  the  Foundling  Hospital  for  Children 
in  London ;  and  "  The  Law  and  the  Gospel  " — 
from  "  The  Wisdom  of  Fools  " — in  the  author's 
effort  to  reform  and  reinstate  a  working  girl. 

"  The  Wisdom  of  Fools  "  and  "  Sidney  "  are  the 
books  Mrs.  Deland  has  had  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
writing,  and  the  books  that  represent  to  her  the 
[57] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

nearest  approach  to  her  ideals  of  work.  When  we 
were  talking  over  the  chapter  in  which  Sidney  finds 
God,  and  love,  and  heartbreak,  and  her  own  soul, 
she  told  me  that  when  she  read  that  chapter  to 
Phillips  Brooks — she  was  in  the  habit  of  reading 
him  the  week's  work — he  said :  "  I  would  rather 
have  had  you  write  that  than  anything  you  have 
ever  written — you  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  what 
makes  the  great  worth  while  of  life,  of  living." 
Then,  after  a  pause :  "  Why  don't  you  write  a  com 
monplace  story  about  commonplace  people  who  fall 
in  love  in  a  commonplace  way  and  marry  and  are 
happy  ever  after  ?  " 

Mrs.  Deland  had  never  written  anything  since 
her  compositions  at  Pelham  Priory  until  in  the  win 
ter  of  1885,  when  it  occurred  to  her  one  day  that 
she  would  make  some  pen-and-ink  drawings  for  her 
adopted  mother.  She  reflected,  however,  that  it 
would  be  nice  to  have  a  verse  or  two  of  poetry  on 
each  page  of  the  little  book  she  contemplated  mak 
ing;  but  when  she  came  to  draw  the  flowers  she 
could  not  seem  to  find  just  the  verses  that  she 
wanted.  "  And  so  I  remember  one  morning,  when 
I  was  going  into  town  on  the  prosaic  errand  of 
marketing,  I  began  to  say  over  in  my  mind  certain 
things  about  flowers  which  I  thought  I  could  use. 
The  first  thing  that  I  made  up  were  the  lines  about 
the  Succory,  beginning: 

[58] 


Margaret  Deland 

Oh,  not  in  ladies'  gardens, 

My  peasant  posy, 

Smile  thy  dear  blue  eyes,  etc. 

"  The  next  was: 

Oh,  ruddy  lover  ; 
Oh,  brave  red  clover. 

"  Fearing  that  I  might  forget  the  lines,  I  wrote 
them  down  on  a  piece  of  brown  paper  which  I 
begged  from  my  butcher.  Later  in  the  day  I  went 
to  the  house  of  a  friend  to  luncheon,  and  my  slip 
of  paper,  which  I  happened  to  put  down  on  her 
desk,  caught  her  eye.  She  read  the  lines,  and  asked 
who  wrote  them.  I  admitted  that  I  had  written 
them.  She  expressed  unbelief,  and  then  astonish 
ment,  and  finally  took  possession  of  the  paper,  say 
ing,  laughingly,  that  she  meant  to  keep  my  auto 
graph  poems.  It  all  seemed  a  joke  to  me,  and  when, 
therefore,  the  next  morning  I  received  a  letter  from 
this  friend  saying  that  she  had  shown  the  little 
verses  to  Dr.  Holmes,  Mr.  Aldrich,  Mr.  Howells, 
and  Mr.  Boyle  O'Reilly — who  were  then  all  of 
them  living  in  Boston — and  that  they  had  spoken 
most  kindly  of  them,  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes. 

"  But  the  friendly  encouragement  of  these  gen 
tlemen  seemed  to  be  a  match  set  to  gunpowder,  and 
[591 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

for  the  next  few  months  I  wrote  pretty  constantly. 
This  same  friend  kept  copies  of  all  that  I  wrote, 
and  by  and  by,  without  saying  anything  to  me,  sent 
some  of  them  to  Mr.  Alden  of  Harper's  Magazine. 
Mr.  Alden  took  the  little  poem  called  '  Succory,' 
and  sent  my  friend  for  me  a  check  for  $10.  I  don't 
think  that  I  shall  ever  again  experience  the  peculiar 
emotion  which  that  check  caused  me.  Of  course  I 
was  perfectly  delighted,  but  I  had  at  the  same  time 
a  shocked  feeling;  to  receive  money  for  what  I  had 
written  was  horrible.  I  fancy  that  every  artist  feels 
this  more  or  less;  but  I  observe  that  we  all  get 
over  it  very  quickly." 

The  library  in  which  Mrs.  Deland  does  her  work 
is  a  big,  sunny  room,  with  a  long  window  going 
entirely  across  the  side  of  the  house.  Under  this 
window  are  her  bookcases,  and  on  top  of  her  book 
cases  are  all  her  pots  of  hyacinths  and  jonquils. 
She  distinctly  disclaims  the  sort  of  inspiration  upon 
which  the  fledgling  insists.  "  It  is  my  habit  to  sit 
down  at  my  desk  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
whether  I  feel  like  it  or  not,  and  work  if  I  can 
until  half-past  twelve  or  one.  Sometimes,  of  course, 
one  has  a  distinct  disinclination  for  work,  but  I 
believe  that  the  habit  of  industry  is  to  a  great  ex 
tent  the  creator  of  inclination.  I  have  tried  to  act 
upon  this  theory,  even  though  very  frequently  the 
work  which  I  would  do  under  pressure  of  habit 
[60] 


Margaret  Deland 

would  be  torn  up  the  next  day  when  inclination 
was  the  moving  cause  of  writing." 

Mrs.  Deland  has  never  experienced  the  cruelty 
of  publishers  about  which  we  hear  so  much.  "  Most 
kindly,  courteous,  and  liberal  friends,"  she  calls 
them. 

The  author  of  "  John  Ward  "  and  "  Sidney  "  is 
of  a  noble  presence  that  withdraws  from  rather 
than  invites  intrusion  upon  the  precincts  of  intel 
lectual  and  emotional  processes,  of  a  gracious  and 
graceful  hospitality,  and  wholly  free  from  the  self- 
consciousness  and  egotism  so  far  removed  from  the 
reticence  they  would  ape. 


[61] 


Lucas  Malet 

In  London ,  England 


BY    LUCAS   MALET 

Born  in  E-vcrsley  Rectory,  England 

Mrs.  Lorimer. 

Colonel  Enderby's  Wife. 

A  Counsel  of  Perfection. 

The  Wages  of  Sin. 

The  History  of  Sir  Richard  Calmady. 


V 

Lucas  Malet 

In  London,  England 

WITH  rare  regard  for  an  appointment, 
Mrs.  St.  Leger  Harrison,  or,  as  she  is 
known  in  the  world  of  letters,  Lucas 
Malet,  resisted  the  blandishments  of  rural  friends 
and  remained  in  London  over  Sunday  to  receive  the 
writer  of  this  sketch  at  her  home  on  Campden  Hill. 
Mrs.  Harrison  does  not  like  America,  I  am  in 
clined  to  think,  although  she  is  too  courteous  to 
say  so;  but  since  there  are  said  to  be  quite  a  num 
ber  of  Americans  in  London  who  share  her  opinion, 
it  is  hard  to  see  that  she  is  to  blame.  Her  unique 
visit  to  this  country,  made  for  the  purpose  of  gath 
ering  material  for  her  novel,  "  The  Gateless  Bar 
rier,"  was  of  too  short  duration  to  enable  her  to 
obtain  more  than  a  superficial  knowledge  of  Amer 
ica,  but  as  she  is  endowed  with  an  exceedingly  sharp 
eye  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  it  may  be 
that  her  strictures  are  not  altogether  without  justi 
fication.  At  least,  let  us  not  prove  ourselves,  like 
the  English  themselves,  incapable  of  learning  from 
other  nations. 

"  The  main  drawback  to  American  society,"  said 
[65] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

my  hostess,  as  we  sat  in  her  cosey  little  drawing- 
room,  discussing  afternoon  teas  and  other  interna 
tional  subjects,  "  is  that  the  young  girl  is  of  too 
much  importance.  I  should  like  to  see  your  influ 
ential  men  give  more  tone  to  society,  as  they  do  in 
England.  Young  girls,  of  course,  are  very  pretty 
and  sweet  and  charming,  but  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  they  should  be  intellectually  interesting.  The 
consequence  is  that,  when  you  grant  them  such  an 
important  place,  men  of  thought  and  position  come 
to  regard  society  as  beneath  their  dignity,  unworthy 
of  serious  consideration.  However,  as  America 
makes  progress,  your  women  are  likely  to  find  them 
selves  forced  to  play  a  less  important  role." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  an  especially  high 
opinion  of  your  own  sex,  Mrs.  Harrison,"  I  said; 
"  I  thought  women  always  stood  up  for  one  an 
other." 

"  Well,  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  women 
can't  teach  me  anything  I  don't  already  know,  being 
a  woman  myself,  whereas  men  can  teach  me  a  great 
deal." 

To  reach  Bullingham  Mansions,  Pitt  Street, 
Campden  Hill,  Kensington,  is  by  no  means  a  sim 
ple  matter,  just  as  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  leave 
after  you  have  once  found  your  way  into  Mrs. 
Harrison's  hospitable  parlors.  Pitt  Street  lies  hid 
den  away  at  the  end  of  one  of  those  unsolvable 
[66] 


Lucas  Malet 

mazes  that  make  of  certain  parts  of  the  metropolis 
a  succession  of  tiny  residential  settlements,  distinct, 
silent,  and  delightful,  and  ready  at  hand  for  General 
Mercier  for  "  reconcentradoing  "  purposes  when  the 
gallant  Frenchman  shall  have  carried  out  his  plan 
of  invading  England.  At  the  other  end  of  the  lit 
tle  "  No  thoroughfare  "  stands  the  high-shouldered, 
narrow-chested  house  in  which  Mr.  Hornung  pro 
duces  his  burglar  stories,  in  dangerous  proximity, 
one  would  think,  to  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  who 
resides  directly  opposite. 

Despite  the  curious  remoteness,  however,  of  Mrs. 
Harrison's  residence,  I  found  that  the  insidious 
national  custom  of  five  o'clock  tea  had  gained  a 
foothold  even  here,  and  that  the  hand  a-tremble 
and  "  the  burning  forehead  and  parching  tongue," 
the  result  of  previous  indulgences,  were  not  re 
garded  as  adequate  excuse  for  abstemiousness.  In 
deed,  although  hitherto  unremarked,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  the  tea-table  is  the  cornerstone  of 
the  British  Empire;  for  how  can  it  be  otherwise 
that  forty  million  men,  women,  and  children  who 
collectively  poison  themselves  every  day  of  the  year 
at  a  given  signal,  should  think  alike  on  minor  ques 
tions  of  public  policy,  such  as  the  Boer  war  and 
the  fiscal  policy  of  India? 

"  I  quite  forgot  we  were  having  an  interview," 
said  my  hostess  at  parting,  and  I  then  discovered 
[67] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

that  I,  too,  had  quite  forgotten  the  nature  of  the 
occasion,  having  succeeded  in  demolishing  the  pile 
of  cookies  which  she  had  insidiously  placed  before 
me  in  knowledge  of  the  weakness  of  my  sex. 

Mrs.  Harrison  is  tall  and  large,  distinctly  Eng 
lish  in  appearance,  and  reminiscent,  I  should  im 
agine,  of  her  father,  Charles  Kingsley.  While 
apparently  not  abnormally  observant,  she  manages 
to  follow,  as  I  discovered  on  a  later  occasion,  simul 
taneous  occurrences  of  the  most  divergent  nature. 
Indeed,  I  was  constantly  thinking  of  the  hero  in 
"  Carissima  "  with  his  preternatural  gift  for  observ 
ing  the  run-down  condition  of  people's  shoes,  and 
wondering  whether  she  would  notice  that  mine  had 
been  made  in  Germany. 

"  How  did  you  first  come  to  write,  Mrs.  Harri 
son  ? "  I  asked  during  the  disappearance  of  the 
cookies  and  between  two  more  or  less  lengthy  dis 
cussions  of  America,  and  incidentally  also  of  Eng 
land. 

"  Well,  I  started  to  write  because  my  husband 
and  myself  needed  money,"  replied  my  hostess,  with 
the  delightful  frankness  that  is  one  of  England's 
greatest  charms.  "  My  first  book  was  written  when 
I  was  twenty-seven,  and,  as  it  turned  out,  was  suc 
cessful;  but  as  this,  of  course,  was  not  to  be  fore 
seen  with  certainty,  I  took  a  nom  de  plume  to  hide 
behind  in  case  of  failure." 

[68] 


Lucas  Malet 

"  How  did  you  chance  upon  the  combination 
'Lucas  Malet'?  It  has  quite  an  exotic  sound." 

"  Well,  Lucas  was  the  maiden  name  of  my 
father's  mother,  and  Miss  Malet  was  her  aunt,  and 
hence  his  great-aunt.  She  was  a  very  clever  woman, 
it  seems,  and  it  was  from  her  that  we  inherited 
whatever  brains  we  happen  to  have.  However,  it 
was  Max  Miiller  who  first  put  the  idea  of  writing 
into  my  head.  He  married  a  cousin  of  mine,  and 
he  always  used  to  say  that  some  day  I  would  be  a 
writer." 

"  Doesn't  the  hopelessness  of  getting  up  some 
thing  new  frequently  come  over  you,  Mrs.  Harri 
son?  It  has,  of  course,  already  all  been  said  a 
thousand  times  before,  hasn't  it?" 

"  But  that  isn't  the  right  view  of  the  matter. 
It  is  all  new  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  old.  It 
depends  upon  the  interpreter.  It  isn't  necessary  to 
have  a  new  setting;  each  individual  is  a  novelty, 
absolutely  unlike  all  other  people.  But  as  far  as 
Englishmen  are  concerned,  it  is  not  in  England  that 
you  must  study  them.  Here  they  are  more  or  less 
all  alike,  and  wear  the  same  kind  of  clothing,  and 
do  and  say  pretty  much  the  same  sort  of  thing 
under  like  circumstances.  To  really  know  your 
Englishman  you  must  study  him  in  India  or  South 
Africa,  away  from  civilization,  face  to  face  with 
nature  and  the  problems  of  primitive  life.  Then  it 
[69] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

is  that  the  magnificent  qualities  of  pluck  and  en 
durance  and  courage  come  out  that  have  made 
England  what  she  is.  But  tell  me,  weren't  you 
terribly  shocked  by  the  Venezuelan  dispute  between 
America  and  England?  Didn't  the  mere  thought 
of  war  between  our  countries  strike  you  as  awful 
in  the  extreme?  " 

This  was  rather  a  disconcerting  question,  as  I 
had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  regarding  either  the 
war  of  1776  or  of  1812  as  great  disasters,  nor  Mr. 
Cleveland's  reprimand  of  a  later  day  as  particularly 
regrettable.  Mrs.  Harrison,  however,  fortunately 
relieved  me  of  the  necessity  of  replying. 

"  To  us,"  she  continued,  "  the  thought  of  going 
to  war  with  America  was  altogether  grotesque, 
horrid,  almost  unthinkable.  But  don't  think  we 
were  afraid,"  she  hastened  to  add  with  a  laugh; 
"  we  should  have  gone  on  in  the  quiet,  unflurried 
way  we  always  do.  We  were  simply  waiting  for 
you  to  find  some  cause  to  unite  on,  since  you  had 
none,  so  far  as  we  could  see.  I  know  a  good  deal 
about  America,  you  know,  as  I  have  cousins  in  New 
York.  One  of  the  youngest  of  them,  a  college  lad, 
was  recently  over  here  on  a  visit  to  us;  he  was  a 
dear  boy,  but  somehow  he  seemed  to  have  the  feel 
ing  that  we  wanted  to  take  his  nationality  away 
from  him,  and  that  it  was  therefore  necessary  for 
him  to  give  constant  expression  to  his  Americanism." 
[70] 


Lucas  Malet 

"  That  is  only  natural,  Mrs.  Harrison,"  I  said. 
"  You  know,  in  a  foreign  country  one  always  has 
a  chip  on  one's  shoulder." 

"  A  chip  on  one's  shoulder — what  does  that 
mean?"  she  asked,  with  puzzled  look;  so  I  was 
forced  to  explain  to  her  the  meaning  and  origin  of 
this  peculiarly  American  expression,  which  appar 
ently  appealed  strongly  to  her  literary  sense  of  the 
picturesque. 

"  Until  one  understands  American  women,"  re 
marked  my  hostess,  in  the  course  of  an  interchange 
of  opinion  on  the  delectable  sex  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic,  "  one  is  apt  to  misunderstand  them 
sadly.  This  is  because  things  which  they  do  and 
say,  quite  without  further  implication,  would  inevi 
tably  mean  much  more  in  the  case  of  Englishwomen. 
American  women's  flirting  doesn't  mean  so  much 
as  Englishwomen's." 

"  There  is  really  comparatively  very  little  going 
on  under  the  surface  in  New  York  society,  Mrs. 
Harrison;  as  I  once  heard  one  of  the  Four  Hun 
dred  state,  there  is  not  enough  going  on  to  make  it 
interesting.  I  wonder  whether  as  much  can  be  said 
of  London?  " 

"  Well,  I  mustn't  betray  my  countrywomen," 
was  the  judicious  reply,  "  but  one  thing  is  certain. 
Englishwomen  are  much  more  ready  than  American 
women  to  act  from  the  heart,  rather  than  the  head. 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

But,  now,  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you  think 
American  business  men  are  as  scrupulously,  sensi 
tively  honest  in  their  transactions  as  Englishmen  ?  " 
This  is  a  question  for  which  I  was  totally  un 
prepared,  as  I  had  devoted  but  little  time  to  con 
sideration  of  commercial  honesty  either  in  New 
York  or  London.  In  the  circumstances,  therefore, 
I  was  compelled  to  content  myself  with  a  general 
reply  tending  to  show  the  universal  depravity  of 
human  nature,  escaping  thus  with  unscathed  pa 
triotism.  Subsequent  to  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Harrison, 
however,  I  learned  of  the  English  custom  of  paying 
"  gentlemen  "  of  high  standing  for  introductions  to 
influential  business  men  of  their  acquaintance,  and 
this,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  English  abuse 
of  the  "  guinea  pig,"  should  serve,  I  think,  as  a 
belated  but  all-sufficient  answer  to  her  question. 


[72] 


Frances   Hodgson   Burnett 

In  London  and  New  Tork 


BY    MRS.    BURNETT 
Born  in  Manchester,  England 

That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's. 

Hawarth. 

Little  Lord  Fauntleroy. 

A  Fair  Barbarian. 

Through  One  Administration. 

The  One  I  Knew  the  Best  of  All. 

Louisiana. 

Sara  Crewe. 

A  Lady  of  Quality. 

Little  Saint  Elizabeth. 

His  Grace  of  Ormonde. 

In  Connection  with  the  Willoughby  Claim. 

The  Making  of  a  Marchioness. 


VI 

Frances   Hodgson   Burnett 

In  London  and  New  Tork 

MRS.  BURNETT  is  an  unusual  mixture 
of  English  and  American  characteristics. 
At  times  she  is  quite  English,  and  then 
again  quite  American. 

"  I  do  so  love  America,"  she  said,  enthusiastically, 
"  with  her  energy  and  initiative  and  fearlessness. 
There  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  there  that 
gets  into  one's  blood  and  puts  new  nerve  and  ardor 
into  one.  I  could  not  be  happy  if  I  thought  I  was 
never  going  back  again.  I  love  the  fearlessness  of 
the  people." 

This  was  said,  at  her  home  in  London,  with  all 
the  fire  of  the  true  daughter  of  the  Republic,  who 
by  circumstances  was  forced  to  live  across  the  water, 
but  whose  heart  turned  longingly  to  the  home  on 
this  side  the  sea.  Even  the  voice  was  American. 
The  next  moment,  however,  she  was  speaking  of 
the  green  lawns  and  ancient  trees  and  storied  tur 
rets  of  her  English  country  home,  some  miles  from 
London,  with  the  same  sense  of  pride  and  satisfac 
tion,  albeit  in  the  altered  tone  of  one  whose  heart 
and  affections  are  bounded  by  the  shores  of  Albion. 
[75] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

Mrs.  Burnett's  experience  was  precisely  the  re 
verse  of  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy's.  She  was  born 
in  the  old  town  of  Manchester,  and  did  not  go  to 
America — "  emigrate "  was  the  proper  word  in 
those  days  when  the  sea  journey  was  a  redoubtable 
undertaking — until  her  fourteenth  year. 

"  When  we  went  out  to  Tennessee,"  she  said, 
speaking  of  that  time,  "  everyone  said  good-by  to 
us  as  if  for  life,  as  if  taking  leave  of  us  forever, 
convinced  they  would  never  see  us  again.  And  it 
looked  just  as  serious  to  us  as  it  did  to  them.  I 
was  still  young  enough  to  have  no  fixed  traits  and 
prejudices,  to  be  able  still  to  assimilate  new  im 
pressions  and  views  of  life,  to  be  modified  by  new 
surroundings.  In  many  of  my  views  I  am  thor 
oughly  American.  I  hold  that  no  one  to-day,  in 
our  complex  civilization,  can  be  thoroughly  and 
symmetrically  developed  unless  he  knows  and  lives 
in  both  countries,  England  and  America.  We  are 
nowadays  too  complicated  and  many-sided  to  be 
satisfied  by  what  either  one  of  these  countries  alone 
can  offer  us ;  we  need  both  of  them.  I  have  a  home 
in  England  and  one  in  America,  and  I  live  in  them 
by  turns.  I  can't  remain,  however,  in  either  more 
than  three  years  without  feeling  the  necessity  for  a 
change,  the  longing  for  my  other  '  native  land.'  I 
am  one  of  the  very  few  privileged  persons  who  have 
the  right  to  talk  about  both  America  and  England 
[76] 


Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

as  they  like,  to  criticise  both  of  them  and  point  out 
their  faults,  for  I  belong  to  both  of  them." 

Mrs.  Burnett  at  the  time  of  this  talk  was  living 
in  Lord  Buccleuch's  house,  in  Charles  Street,  which 
is  one  of  the  quiet,  aristocratic  residential  streets 
branching  off  Berkeley  Square.  No  more  serious 
disturbance  than  that  of  a  hand-organ  ever  breaks 
the  leisured  quiet  of  this  exclusive  section  of  Lon 
don  town,  which  offers  many  a  lord  and  lady  shel 
ter.  The  suggestion  of  ancestors  was  in  the  air — 
in  the  ancient  tapestries,  in  the  seasoned  portraits 
on  the  walls,  and  in  the  weighty  bearing  of  the 
flunkeys.  The  liveried  individual  who  opened  the 
door  for  me  was  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  the 
ducal  dignity  which  still  clung  to  the  house,  and  as 
he  threw  open  the  portal  through  which  his  Grace 
had  so  often  passed  he  made  me  feel  for  the  first 
time  in  life  the  paramount  necessity  of  a  title — it 
requires  courage  to  announce  one's  self  to  a  lackey 
of  that  sort  as  merely  "  Mister." 

In  the  music-room,  upstairs,  Mrs.  Burnett  was 
experimenting  delightedly  with  a  newly  acquired 
pianola,  drowning  melody  and  harmony  by  the  deep, 
unregulated  "  turn-turn  "  of  the  bass,  but  content 
edly  flattering  herself  that  they  were  making  music. 

Mrs.  Burnett  is  a  better  writer  than  musician. 
In  stature  she  is  rather  below  the  average  of  the 
new  generation,  and  in  manner  not  devoid  of  pleas- 
[77] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

ing,  appealing  femininity,  despite  her  reputation  as 
an  excellent  woman  of  business.  She  is  one  of  the 
few  present-day  writers  of  fiction  who  find  it  profit 
able  to  dispense  with  the  services  of  a  literary  agent, 
who  in  most  cases  is  able  to  obtain  higher  prices 
for  literary  wares  than  the  producers  themselves. 

"  When  Mr.  Gilder  of  The  Century  was  over 
here  last  summer,"  she  said,  in  speaking  of  her 
work  then  in  hand,  "  he  came  to  visit  me  down  in 
the  country,  and  incidentally  I  told  him  the  out 
line  of  a  story  that  I  had  in  mind  to  write. 

"  '  Why  don't  you  write  that  for  The  Century?  ' 
he  asked  me  when  I  had  finished.  I  had  not 
thought  of  that  before,  but  I  told  him  I  would  see 
what  I  could  make  out  of  it.  So  I  set  to  work  and 
have  been  writing  at  it  ever  since.  Unfortunately, 
however,  I  found  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  get 
it  completed  in  time  to  begin  that  year  in  the  maga 
zine;  so,  as  my  name  had  been  announced  in  the 
prospectus,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  novelette  for 
them,  which  I  called  '  The  Making  of  a  Mar 
chioness.' 

"  It  is  strange,  isn't  it,"  said  Mrs.  Burnett, 
when  we  had  drifted  on  to  the  question  of  the 
genesis  of  literary  production,  "  what  odd  and  often 
times  seemingly  foreign  ideas  will  suggest  an  idea 
for  a  story.  People  often  come  to  you  with  a  sub 
ject  for  a  story,  or,  indeed,  with  the  story  complete ; 
[78] 


Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

but,  of  course,  one  can  never  do  anything  with  a 
suggestion  of  that  sort.  It  is  only  the  suggestions 
that  come  of  themselves  and  that  seize  hold  of  your 
imagination  that  are  really  worth  anything. 

"  It  was  in  that  roundabout  way  that  I  got  the 
idea  for  '  A  Lady  of  Quality,'  which  I  think  is  my 
most  successful  book.  I  was  living  in  London,  in 
Portland  Place,  at  the  time,  in  one  of  those  old 
houses,  such  as  they  don't  build  nowadays,  with  the 
most  wonderful,  vast  wine-cellars.  These  cellars 
were  my  constant  delight,  and  when  I  had  dinner 
parties  I  used  often  to  take  my  guests  down  to  show 
them  my  catacombs.  They  belonged  to  an  age 
when  men  were  supposed  to  carry  their  three  bot 
tles.  Well,  on  one  occasion  I  took  some  guests 
down,  as  usual,  to  show  them  the  cellars,  which 
consisted  of  several  apartments  opening  into  each 
other,  the  walls  of  each  lined  with  stands  for  hold 
ing  the  bottles.  The  last  apartment  communicated 
with  the  upper  story  by  a  staircase,  which  could,  of 
course,  be  cut  off  from  above.  While  showing  it 
to  them  I  laughingly  observed  what  a  splendid 
place  it  would  be  in  which  to  hide  a  murdered 
man.  One  of  my  guests  replied  that  I  ought  to 
choose  that  spot  as  the  scene  of  a  story.  At  the  time 
I  said,  '  Nonsense,'  but  somehow  the  idea  took  hold 
of  my  imagination,  until  it  became  a  regular  obses 
sion,  giving  me  no  rest  until  I  wrote  the  story. 
[791 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

"  My  first  idea  was  to  have  a  man  commit  the 
crime,  and  I  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  a  motive — 
debt,  jealousy,  love?  Then  it  suddenly  struck  me 
how  much  more  dramatic  it  would  be  to  have  a 
young  girl  do  it,  to  have  her  murder  a  man  who 
had  a  hold  on  her,  and  to  hide  his  body  in  the 
cellar.  In  order  to  conceive  of  a  girl  capable  of 
such  a  deed  it  was  necessary  to  imagine  her  brought 
up  in  the  way  described  in  '  A  Lady  of  Quality,' 
which,  of  course,  could  only  occur  in  a  period  such 
as  that  in  which  the  story  takes  place.  After 
I  had  the  main  idea  of  the  story  and  the  historical 
setting,  the  writing  of  it  was  very  easy  and  quick 
work;  indeed,  it  wrote  itself,  so  to  speak.  I  began 
the  book  in  Washington,  but  finished  it  in  Portland 
Place." 

Washington  was  long  the  home  of  Mrs.  Bur 
nett.  Indeed  it  was  from  that  city  that  she  went, 
several  years  ago,  to  take  up  a  new  home  in  Eng 
land.  I  have  referred  here  mainly  to  the  London 
house  in  which  she  received  me.  Her  true  English 
home,  however,  is  far  from  the  city,  near  a  quaint 
and  ancient  village  of  Kent  that  recalls  the  pictures 
painted  there  in  the  long  ago  by  Constable.  When 
she  lives  there  her  favorite  place  for  writing  is  in 
the  rose-garden,  remote  from  the  house  itself. 

Mrs.  Burnett  has  since  made  a  long  stay  in 
America.  The  winter  of  1902-1903  she  passed  in 
[80] 


Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

New  York.  Here  the  writer  has  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her  at  one  of  her  Sunday  afternoons  at 
home.  In  one  of  those  modern  streets  just  off  the 
western  confines  of  Central  Park  stands  this  house, 
with  its  white  stone  front  and  round  windows. 
Within  were  rooms  carpeted  with  rugs  and  warmed 
by  cannel  coal.  But  here  she  was  settled  for  one 
year  only.  Back  to  England  she,  doubtless,  was 
soon  to  go. 


[81] 


Kate   Douglas    If^iggin 
In  New  York 


BY    MRS.    WIGGIN 
Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 

The  Birds'  Christmas  Carol. 

Timothy's  Quest. 

A  Cathedral  Courtship. 

Polly  Oliver's  Problem. 

Marm  Lisa. 

Penelope's  Progress. 

Penelope's  Experiences  in  Ireland. 


VII 

Kate   Douglas    Wiggin 

In  New  Tork 

KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN,  in  private 
life  Mrs.  George  C.  Riggs,  the  author  of 
the  "  Penelope "  rambles  in  Ireland  and 
Scotland  and  "  The  Birds'  Christmas  Carol,"  which 
has  been  translated  for  readers  of  almost  every  race 
in  the  world,  lives  in  New  York  during  the  win 
ter  months.  Although  in  New  York  the  story 
teller  devotes  most  of  her  time  to  social  obligations, 
to  her  duties  as  Vice-President  of  the  Free  Kinder 
garten  Association,  and  to  a  host  of  ambitious  young 
women  who  are  in  the  city  studying  to  accomplish 
something  besides  marriage,  there  is  a  room  set  apart 
for  her  desk,  where  work  that  has  been  done  in  the 
summer  must  be  completed. 

"  I  seem  to  be  so  dragged  about  between  scat 
tered  interests — my  household  duties,  my  music,  my 
social  obligations,  my  girl  students,  my  friends — 
that  I  scarcely  ever  do  much  writing  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Wiggin.  Then  she  described  the  little  cor 
ner  in  Hollis,  Maine,  where,  as  soon  as  the  winter's 
frown  has  passed  away,  she  goes  and  works.  This 
house  she  has  oddly  named  "  Quillcote-on-Saco," 
and  there,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  Mrs.  Wiggin 
[85] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

has  a  working  nook  in  the  orchard,  which  she  calls 
her  "  apple-tree  study."  "  Sweet  atmosphere  is  such 
a  stimulus  to  study,  both  mental  and  moral,"  she 
said,  in  telling  of  this  luxurious  abandonment  to 
the  inspiration  of  literary  work.  One  can  almost 
trace  the  faint,  wholesome  scent  of  those  apple- 
blossoms  between  the  lines  of  her  pages. 

The  "  Penelope "  series  was  completed  a  few 
years  ago,  and  since  then  Mrs.  Wiggin  has  under 
taken  a  work  the  labor  of  which  she  did  not  realize 
would  be  so  great.  In  collaboration  with  her  sis 
ter,  Miss  Nora  Archibald  Smith,  she  has  compiled 
two  volumes  of  selected  poetry  for  young  people. 
The  first  volume  is  for  children  from  six  to  ten 
years  of  age,  and  called  "  The  Posy  Ring."  The 
second  volume,  for  older  children,  is  called  "  Golden 
Numbers,"  having  on  the  title-page  this  line :  "  To 
add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers !  " 

"  I  anticipated  with  pleasure  the  reading  that 
such  books  would  entail,"  said  Mrs.  Wiggin,  "  but 
I  never  dreamed  that  I  should  become  so  involved 
in  the  work  that  it  would  take  all  my  time  from 
creative  writing.  We  have  had  to  read  nearly 
every  book  of  poetry  ever  published,  and  the  editing 
and  classification  have  led  us  into  no  end  of  labor." 

"  What  should  the  child  read  ?  "  asked  the  writer 
of  this  article. 

"  Everything  good.  Fairy  stories,  by  all  means, 
[86] 


Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

and  poetry.  We  have  endeavored  to  select  all  the 
famous  verse  that  will  hold  the  attention  of  chil 
dren.  I  have  written  for  each  of  the  seventeen 
sections  in  '  Golden  Numbers  '  an  '  Interleaf/  which 
is  a  simple,  general  criticism  and  suggestion  for  the 
child,  to  appeal  to  his  or  her  imagination  and  de 
veloping  taste,"  said  Mrs.  Wiggin,  as  she  brought 
out  the  type-written  manuscript.  Instead  of  util 
izing  anthologies  of  poetry  in  the  work  of  selection, 
she  explained  that,  in  order  to  give  these  volumes 
of  poetry  for  children  an  individual  stamp,  it  was 
necessary  to  leave  the  anthologies  alone  and  read 
the  poets  themselves. 

With  her  sister,  she  spent  nearly  all  one  sum 
mer  reading  poetry  in  the  libraries  at  Oxford  and 
in  Edinburgh.  What  was  most  needed,  Mrs.  Wig- 
gin  explained,  in  compiling  these  books,  was  a  sense 
of  literary  values  and  a  knowledge  of  what  chil 
dren  want  and  need.  These  facts  are  interesting, 
bearing  upon  the  actual  detail,  as  they  do,  of  Mrs. 
Wiggin's  literary  labors,  which  are  always  pursued 
with  deliberate  care.  Lying  on  the  piano  in  her 
drawing-room  was  a  song-book  with  the  title,  "  Nine 
Love  Songs  and  a  Carol,"  the  music  composed  by 
Mrs.  Wiggin,  the  words  by  different  poets. 

"  Even  small  versatility  is  somewhat  dangerous," 
she  commented,  "  it  gives  one  so  many  temptations 
for  self-expression." 

[87] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

Although  Mrs.  Wiggin  finds  that  her  season  in 
New  York  is  so  full  of  things  to  be  done  that  she 
hardly  has  any  time  for  "  things  to  be  told,"  the 
author  acknowledged  that  she  had  begun  a  drama 
tization  of  "  The  Birds'  Christmas  Carol."  The 
basis  of  the  play  had  been  submitted  by  someone 
else,  and  then  accepted  by  Mrs.  Wiggin.  The 
play  is  a  comedy-drama  in  three  acts,  differing  only 
from  the  book  in  that  incidents  are  added. 

"  I  want  the  play  to  be  sweet,  wholesome,  and 
merry,  and  I  find  that  there  are  many  things  per 
missible  in  a  book  that  would  be  too  pathetic  for 
the  stage,"  said  the  authoress. 

Primarily,  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  is  painstaking, 
patient,  and  industrious  in  her  work.  In  the  sum 
mer  she  will  write  all  day  when  the  "  apple-tree 
study "  is  under  blue  skies ;  with  a  table  spread 
under  the  trees,  and  with  sometimes  just  a  pad, 
pencil,  and  easy-chair,  where,  under  the  spell  of  the 
myriad  insensible  whisperings  of  a  drowsy  summer's 
day,  the  writer  can  do  a  great  deal  of  work.  One 
can  hardly  dignify  this  open-air  study  by  calling  it 
a  den.  Yet,  from  this  sweet  atmosphere,  "  mental 
and  moral,"  she  produces  those  out-of-door  books 
that  are  so  much  in  vogue,  a  type  in  literature  re 
quiring  a  deep  sentiment  for  beauty  and  a  play  of 
wit  that  takes  the  place  of  sunshine.  "  The  Diary 
of  a  Goose  Girl  "  was  written  chiefly  in  the  "  apple- 
[88] 


Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

tree  study."  It  is  the  tale  of  a  pretty  American 
girl  who  ran  away  from  her  lover  in  England  and 
played  at  being  a  goose  girl.  The  hens  and  ducks 
and  geese  have  individual  characters,  as  human  as 
heroes  and  heroines. 

Three  proofs  of  every  line  in  print  is  what  Mrs. 
Wiggin  requires  from  her  publishers  before  she  is 
satisfied  to  send  the  book  out  upon  the  world,  and 
many  a  time  is  the  manuscript  corrected  before  it 
goes  to  the  printer. 

Modestly  enough,  Mrs.  Wiggin  has  described 
her  "  Penelope  "  books  as  being  "  old  ground  trod 
den  in  a  new  way,"  and  whatever  she  does  will 
always  have  feminine  distinction.  There  is  an  un 
finished  novel,  resting  somewhere  by  the  way — for 
sufficient  originality  in  manner,  so  its  foster-mother 
asserts. 

"  Somehow  or  other  I  cannot  get  a  man  to  stand 
on  two  legs  long  enough  to  do  anything,  to  walk 
through  enough  pages  of  a  book  to  make  him  pre 
sentable;  and  what  is  a  novel  without  a  man  of 
flesh  and  blood?"  said  Mrs.  Wiggin,  ingenuously. 


[89] 


Mary    Johnston 

In  Birmingham,  Alabama 


BY    MISS  JOHNSTON 
Born  in  Buchanan,  Virginia 

Prisoners  of  Hope. 

To  Have  and  To  Hold. 

Audrey. 


VIII 

Mary  Johnston 

In  Birmingham,  Alabama 

TO  the  great  majority  of  those  who  have 
read  the  opening  sentences  of  Mary  John 
ston's    "  Audrey "    there    remains   only    a 
general  impression  of  satisfaction,  tinged  with  ad 
miration  for  the  artist  who  has  painted  such  a  vivid 
picture  in  words.    Few  realize  that  in  this  particu 
lar  case  it  might  almost  be  said   that  the  picture 
produced  the  artist: 

"  The  valley  lay  like  a  ribbon  thrown  into  the 
midst  of  the  encompassing  hills.  The  grass  which 
grew  there  was  soft  and  fine  and  abundant,  the 
trees  which  sprang  from  its  dark,  rich  mould  were 
tall  and  great  of  girth.  A  bright  stream  flashed 
through  it,  and  the  sunshine  lay  warm  upon  the 
grass  and  changed  the  tassels  of  the  maize  into 
golden  plumes.  Above  the  valley,  east,  and  north, 
and  south,  rose  the  hills,  clad  in  living  green,  man 
tled  with  the  purpling  grape,  wreathed  morn  and 
eve  with  trailing  mist.  To  the  westward  were  the 
mountains,  and  they  dwelt  apart  in  a  blue  haze. 
Only  in  the  morning,  if  the  mist  were  not  there, 
t93] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

the  sunrise  struck  upon  their  long  summits,  and  in 
the  evening  they  stood  out,  high  and  black  and  fear 
ful,  against  the  splendid  sky.  The  child  who  played 
beside  the  cabin  door  often  watched  them  as  the 
valley  filled  with  shadows,  and  thought  of  them  as 
a  great  wall  between  her  and  some  land  of  the 
fairies  which  must  needs  lie  beyond  that  barrier, 
beneath  the  splendor  and  the  evening  star.  The 
Indians  called  them  the  Endless  Mountains,  and 
the  child  never  doubted  that  they  ran  across  the 
world  and  touched  the  floor  of  Heaven." 

Amid  such  surroundings,  in  a  valley  sheltered  by 
the  encompassing  hills,  Mary  Johnston  spent  her 
childhood  and  early  youth.  She  was  born  thirty- 
two  years  ago  at  Buchanan,  a  little  village  in  Bote- 
tourt  County,  Va.,  in  the  shadow  of  that  Blue 
Ridge  which  Governor  Spotswood  and  his  Knights 
of  the  Golden  Horseshoe  found  it  to  be  such  a 
pleasure  to  cross.  This  little  town,  settled  about  a 
century  ago,  was  once  a  picturesque  and  decidedly 
pleasant  place,  and  in  ante-bellum  days  had  some 
slight  trade  and  importance.  During  the  war  it 
was  burned  in  part,  the  home  of  Miss  Johnston's 
father  being  one  of  those  destroyed.  In  the  child 
hood  of  the  novelist  the  nearest  railroad  was  three 
miles  away,  and  a  stage-coach  and  canal-boats  con 
nected  it  with  the  outside  world.  To-day  there 
are  two  railroads,  a  "  boom  "  has  passed  over  the 
[94] 


Mary  Johnston 

town,  many  of  the  old  residents  have  died  or  moved 
away,  and  many  of  the  old  houses  show  signs  of 
dilapidation. 

But  if  the  old  people  have  gone,  the  memory  of 
their  reverence  for  the  glorious  past  of  Virginia  has 
remained  to  lend  warmth  and  reality  to  the  color 
ing  of  those  pictures  which  were  first  seen  in  out 
line  by  the  young  girl  who  spent  so  much  of  her 
time  day-dreaming  under  the  old  trees  which  have 
been  cut  down,  or  browsing  in  the  libraries  of  houses 
which  are  now  dilapidated.  And  the  mountains, 
which  remained  for  Audrey  when  the  cabin  was  a 
waste  and  the  clearing  a  tangle  of  shrubs  and  un 
derbrush,  have  remained  also  for  the  creator  of 
Audrey. 

Sixteen  years  of  Miss  Johnston's  life  were  spent 
at  Buchanan,  years  from  which  the  routine  of 
neither  public  nor  private  school  filched  a  single 
hour,  for  her  health  was  frail,  and  her  education 
was  conducted  at  home,  with  due  regard  to  physical 
limitations.  Her  grandmother,  a  Scotchwoman  of 
rare  intelligence  and  beauty  of  character,  was  her 
first  teacher,  and  afterward  an  aunt.  Later,  gov 
ernesses  were  employed,  and  when  her  father  and 
mother  moved  to  Alabama  the  future  author  was 
sent  to  a  finishing  school  in  Atlanta;  but  within 
three  months  her  health  broke  down,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  be  taken  to  her  home  at  Birmingham. 
[95] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Here,  a  year  later,  Miss  Johnston's  mother  died, 
and  the  young  girl  of  sixteen,  the  eldest  of  several 
brothers  and  sisters,  was  called  upon  to  direct  the 
affairs  of  the  household.  Her  father,  Major  John 
W.  Johnston,  a  lawyer  and  an  ex-member  of  the 
Virginia  Legislature,  was  at  that  time  an  exceed 
ingly  busy  man,  largely  interested  in  several  South 
ern  railroads  and  identified  with  a  number  of  the 
initial  enterprises  of  the  city  in  which  he  had  made 
his  home. 

Birmingham  is  not  a  beautiful  town,  and  to  the 
ordinary  young  girl  the  direction  of  a  comparatively 
large  household  would  not  be  inspiring.  But  Miss 
Johnston  was  not  an  ordinary  young  girl,  and  it  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  a  great  deal  of  her  inspi 
ration  and  not  a  little  of  her  breadth  of  view  have 
been  acquired  as  the  result  of  years  spent  in  quietly 
doing  "  the  thing  that's  nearest."  Certainly  she  has 
been  satisfied  with  the  consequent  love  of  the  mem 
bers  of  her  immediate  family — more  satisfied,  one 
may  feel  justified  in  saying,  than  with  the  fame 
which  has  come  with  the  publication  of  her  novels. 

The  home,  at  2213  Seventh  Avenue,  Birming 
ham,  has  little  to  distinguish  it  from  the  city  home 
of  any  other  Southern  family  in  easy  circumstances. 
It  is  a  fairly  large  house,  built  for  comfort  rather 
than  for  beauty,  and  furnished  for  comfort  and  for 
dignified  refinement  rather  than  style  or  fashion. 
[96] 


Mary  Johnston 

Back  of  the  large  parlors,  with  the  hospitable  open 
fireplaces  of  the  South,  is  the  library,  where  Miss 
Johnston  did  part  of  her  writing  until  a  short  time 
ago,  when  another  room  was  set  apart  for  this  pur 
pose.  Few  of  the  books  on  the  shelves  are  modern, 
and  an  examination  of  their  titles  supplies  a  pos 
sible  explanation  of  the  genesis  of  the  distinguishing 
features  of  the  novelist's  work.  The  literary  fa 
vorites  are  Shakespeare,  Marlowe,  Spenser,  the 
essayists  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  balladists  of 
Scotland,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Browning. 

Miss  Johnston's  writing  is  done  at  no  particular 
hour  and  in  no  particular  place,  although  a  very 
great  deal  of  it  has  been  accomplished  in  the  open 
air.  "  Prisoners  of  Hope,"  which  was  begun  when 
the  author  was  living  at  the  San  Remo  in  this  city, 
was  largely  written  in  a  secluded  nook  in  Central 
Park.  Much  of  "  To  Have  and  To  Hold  "  was 
written  at  a  small  mountain-resort  in  Virginia,  al 
though  the  book  was  begun  in  Birmingham.  The 
first  draft  was  made  with  lead-pencil,  and  wrhen  this 
had  been  thoroughly  revised,  the  corrected  copy  was 
reproduced  in  type-writing. 

To  a  course  of  reading  which  has  left  her  mind 
impregnated  with  the  spirit  and  speech  of  the  times 
of  which  she  writes  must  be  added  an  imagination 
so  fertile  and  vivid  as  to  be  almost  a  sixth  sense. 
To  the  possession  of  this  faculty  more  than  to  any- 
[97] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

thing  else  must  be  ascribed  the  popularity  of  this 
writer's  work. 

Once,  shortly  after  "  Prisoners  of  Hope "  had 
been  published,  she  was  driving  with  her  father  and 
a  friend  on  a  woodland  road  not  far  from  Hot 
Springs.  On  either  side  the  forest  land  closed  in 
so  as  almost  to  touch  the  axles  of  the  carriage. 
After  looking  deep  into  the  woods  on  either  side 
for  a  few  moments,  she  suddenly  said:  "I  can 
enjoy  such  a  drive  as  this  now,  but  only  a  short 
time  ago  when  I  passed  along  such  a  trail  I  could 
see  Landless  and  Patricia  wandering  through  the 
forest,  until  the  sight  became  really  painful."  To 
the  many  hours  spent  in  watching  the  ocean  in  all 
its  varying  moods  during  several  summers  spent  on 
an  island  off  the  eastern  shore  of  Virginia  may  be 
credited  those  graphic  pictures  of  voyage  and  ship 
wreck  which  were  a  feature  of  "  To  Have  and  To 
Hold." 

The  clew  to  "  Audrey,"  which  was  written  al 
most  entirely  on  the  porch  of  a  summer  cottage  in 
the  grounds  of  a  hotel  at  Warm  Springs,  Va.,  was 
found  in  one  of  Wordsworth's  "  Poems  of  the 
Imagination,"  that  which  contains  the  familiar 
lines : 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower ; 
Then  Nature  said  :   "A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
[98] 


Mary  Johnston 

This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

It  has  frequently  been  asked  how  it  is  possible 
for  a  young  woman  so  realistically  to  describe  fight 
ing,  siege,  and  sudden  death.  Putting  aside  the 
results  of  reading,  Miss  Johnston  might  possibly 
answer  with  a  smile  that  this  is  an  inherited  fac 
ulty.  Her  father,  who  served  in  the  Confederate 
Army  from  the  opening  to  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War,  rising  to  be  major  of  artillery,  is  neither  a 
fire-eater  nor  an  extreme  partisan.  Although  he 
bears  the  marks  of  many  wounds,  it  is  difficult  to 
induce  him  to  talk  of  his  own  share  in  the  struggle. 
But  once  started  in  praise  of  the  tactical  ability  or 
the  personal  bravery  of  the  leaders  on  either  side, 
his  words  form  themselves  into  brilliant  pictures 
which  are  at  one  and  the  same  time  tributes  to  his 
thorough  knowledge  of  military  strategy  and  to  his 
ability  vividly  to  describe  what  he  has  seen. 


[99] 


Oliver   Hobbes 
In  London,  England 


BY   MRS.    CRAIGIE 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts 

Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral. 

The  Sinner's  Comedy. 

A  Study  in  Temptations. 

The  Gods,  Some  Mortals,  and  Lord  Wickersham. 

A    School  for  Saints. 

Love  and  the  Soul  Hunters. 


IX 

Oliver   Hobbes 
In  London ,  England 

JOHN  OLIVER  HOBBES  (Mrs.  Craigie) 
is  an  American  by  birth,  but  for  a  number  of 
years  has  resided  in  England,  where  the  scenes 
of  most  of  her  stories  are  laid.  At  present  she  lives 
with  her  father  in  Lancaster  Gate,  which  belongs 
to  the  fashionable  quarter  of  South  Kensington 
comprising  Cromwell  Road  and  Queen's  Gate. 
Lancaster  Gate  itself  is  one  of  those  typical  Lon 
don  residential  quarters  in  which  nothing  less  gen 
teel  than  a  hansom  cab  is  supposed  to  be  seen,  and 
in  which  it  would  be  perfectly  safe  for  children  to 
play  in  the  centre  of  the  street,  did  the  scions  of 
the  families  within  its  boundary  ever  condescend 
to  such  plebeian  pastime. 

The  house  in  which  Mrs.  Craigie  lives  is  a  solid, 
old-fashioned,  four-storied  mansion,  which  belongs 
to  any  and  every  period  of  architecture.  Entering 
into  a  broad  hallway,  the  visitor  passes  up  the  gen 
erous  stairway,  which  occupies  the  central  position 
belonging  to  the  "  well  "  in  more  modern  edifices, 
to  the  spacious  drawing-room  on  the  second  floor. 
In  some  intangible  way — perhaps  owing  to  the 
mere  pose  of  the  furniture — this  apartment  suggests 
[103] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^Their  Homes 

America,  and  prepares  one  for  the  American  intona 
tion  and  manner  of  the  hostess.  Among  numerous 
portraits  on  the  walls  hangs  one  of  the  authoress 
herself,  in  youthful,  never-aging  maidenhood,  paint 
ed  at  about  the  time  when  her  first  book,  "  Some 
Emotions  and  a  Moral,"  appeared.  In  person 
Mrs.  Craigie  furnishes  fresh  proof  that  large  size 
and  imposing  presence  are  not  necessary  to  intel 
lectual  boldness  and  unconventionality. 

When  one  goes  to  see  Mrs.  Craigie  he  should 
take  a  stenographer  with  him.  In  the  course  of 
conversation  numerous  remarks  will  fall  from  her 
lips  that  would  become  very  convenient  in  one's 
own  "  original "  work.  Perhaps  Browning,  the 
grave,  befrocked  individual  who  opens  the  door  for 
one  at  No.  56  Lancaster  Gate,  W.,  in  London, 
regards  his  official  position  merely  as  a  cloak  for 
the  gaining  of  ready-made  repartee  for  the  book 
which  he  is  writing  behind  the  screen. 

Mrs.  Craigie  is  John  Oliver  Hobbes — with  a 
difference.  Exactly  wherein  this  difference  lies  is 
hard  to  determine,  and  perhaps  indiscreet  for  a 
mere  man  to  undertake  to  make  clear.  One  should 
feel  perturbation  at  the  thought  of  meeting  the  au 
thor  of  "  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral."  Most 
men  and  few  women  would  probably  understand  it. 
This  is  probably  merely  a  symptom  of  masculine 
reluctance  to  admit  individual  feminine  superiority. 
[104] 


John  Oliver  Hobbes 

In  the  writer's  case  trepidation,  however,  proved  to 
be  without  justification,  as  Mrs.  Craigie  showed 
herself  absolutely  free  from  the  general  blight  of 
clever  people,  but  with  a  desire  to  make  the  stupid 
ity  of  others  serve  merely  as  a  unit  of  measure  for 
subjective  brilliancy.  She  indicated  a  generous  wish 
to  laugh  at  the  right  time  at  the  jokes  of  others. 

"  We  will  have  up  some  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Craigie, 
after  the  first  formalities.  In  England,  whenever 
your  hostess  is  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  you,  she 
orders  up  tea;  it  is  an  unmistakable  betrayal  of 
smilingly  endured  martyrdom.  To  resort  to  that  at 
the  start  of  a  visit  seems  a  very  bad  omen ;  better, 
however,  a  tea  beginning  than  a  tea  ending.  When 
handicapped  by  a  knowledge  that  she  is  talking  for 
publication  Mrs.  Craigie  is  a  scintillating  conversa 
tionalist,  but  her  paradoxes  and  incongruities  are 
apt  to  remain  only  as  sensations  when  one  comes 
to  perpetuate  them  in  black  and  white. 

"  I  don't  often  receive  interviewers,"  she  said, 
"  as  one  can  say  and  has  said  in  one's  books  every 
thing  it  is  necessary  to  say  much  better  than  by 
word  of  mouth.  Still,  my  experience  with  jour 
nalists  has  always  been  of  the  most  pleasant  nature. 
I  have  never  been  misquoted  or  had  my  hospitality 
misused."  Mrs.  Craigie  trusts  the  discretion  of 
her  interlocutor,  or  at  least  she  pretends  to  do  so, 
which  is  just  as  flattering.  Moreover,  she  under- 
[105] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

stands  our  countrymen,  and  does  not  make  the  com 
mon  European  mistake  of  grouping  us  all  in  one 
indiscriminate  sensational  category. 

"  Every  man  is  three  men,"  remarks  one  of  the 
cynical  women  characters  in  "  The  Wisdom  of  the 
Wise,"  Mrs.  Craigie's  recent  theatrical  production ; 
"  the  man  as  he  is  before  he  becomes  engaged,  the 
man  after  he  is  engaged,  and  the  man  after  he  is 
married."  Similarly,  I  think,  it  might  be  remarked 
of  a  woman  author  that  she  is  three  women;  the 
woman  the  interviewer  sees  and  the  two  other 
women  whom  he  does  not  see.  The  two  other 
women  in  Mrs.  Craigie's  case  are  very  interesting. 
Mrs.  Craigie  is  rather  small,  a  brunette,  distinctly 
pretty,  with  fine,  clever  eyes,  and  with  the  art  of 
dressing  well  and  fitting  into  her  surroundings. 
Some  persons  may  consider  this  a  small  matter,  but 
it  is  not. 

"  English  people  do  not  want  to  hear  the  truth," 
she  said,  in  a  discussion  that  started  with  the 
drama;  "neither  about  the  Boer  War,  nor  about 
life,  nor  about  anything  else ;  it  disturbs  their  diges 
tion.  They  like  to  pick  up  the  morning  paper  and 
read  that  everything  is  going  along  finely  and  that 
England  is  still  on  top  and  the  first  nation  in  the 
world.  '  Just  as  I  knew  it  would  be,'  exclaims  the 
worthy  taxpayer ;  '  didn't  I  predict  that  everything 
would  come  out  all  right  in  the  end ! '  And  the 
[106] 


"John  Oliver  Hobbes 

digestion  of  his  breakfast  is  not  interfered  with. 
Similarly  the  evening  paper  must  not  interfere  with 
the  digestion  of  that  great  institution,  the  English 
dinner.  And  it  is  the  same  way  with  the  drama. 
The  public  does  not  like  to  see  anything  that  makes 
them  think,  anything  in  which  moral  questions  are 
treated  in  a  way  that  shows  how  suffering  and  mis 
fortune  result  from  wrongdoing.  Oh,  dear,  no; 
that  is  uncomfortable!  " 

"  That  cuts  out  a  lot  of  good  motives,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  It  cuts  out  everything;  it  cuts  the  ground  from 
under  one's  feet.  And  the  actors!  I  may  have 
never  so  fine  an  idea  to-morrow  for  a  play,  but  I 
have  to  stop  and  say  to  myself  that  Mr.  So-and-So 
will  never  consent  to  say  what  I  have  put  into  his 
mouth.  '  Your  play  is  very  fine,'  he  would  object, 
'  but  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  say  what  you 
have  written  for  me;  I  must  always  be  good  and 
noble,  the  public  expect  it  of  me.'  '  Yes,  but  that's 
not  the  way  to  make  money.'  '  Ah,  but  that  doesn't 
matter.  I  must  remain  good  and  noble.'  And  so 
he  remains  good  and  noble,  and — poor.  Of  course 
that  is  not  true  of  such  actors  as  young  Mr.  Irving, 
but  it  is  true  of  the  majority. 

"  But  to  return  to  the  truth.  Thackeray  told 
the  truth,  and  the  result  was  that  in  the  end  hardly 
anybody  went  to  his  funeral.  He  drew  the  Eng- 
[107] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'Their  Homes 

lish  people  as  they  were  at  that  time  and  as  they 
are  to-day,  and  they  have  never  forgiven  him. 
Everybody  buys  his  books  and  quotes  him,  but  no 
one  applauds  him.  Some  friends  of  mine  happened 
once  to  be  in  a  hotel  in  Paris  when  Thackeray 
arrived.  '  Thackeray  has  come !  Thackeray  has 
come ! '  was  the  word  passed  around,  and  everybody 
ran  to  the  head  waiter  and  requested  him  not  to 
seat  them  near  that  awful  Mr.  Thackeray — for 
fear  he  might  put  them  into  one  of  his  books !  " 

In  the  English  edition  of  the  reference  book 
"  Who's  Who  "  there  stands  in  many  cases  after 
the  name  of  an  author  a  single,  detached  word,  as 
"  crabbing  "  or  "  logarithms,"  without  the  slightest 
apparent  connection  with  the  subject  of  the  sketch. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  detached  part  of  speech  is 
intended  to  denote  the  author's  favorite  pastime. 
Without  having  consulted  "  Who's  Who  "  for  the 
favorite  recreation  of  Mrs.  Criagie,  I  would  never 
theless  wager  that  it  would  prove  to  be  "  reading 
biographies,"  as  in  conversation  she  makes  frequent 
reference  to  some  peculiarity  of  Balzac  or  Flaubert 
or  Tennyson  that  has  escaped  the  superficial  eye  of 
the  paragrapher. 

"  You  may  express  what  opinion  you  like  about 

me,"  she  said  in  connection  with  the  statement  that 

Balzac   spent   his    life    bursting   with    indignation 

against  invisible  journalistic  vilifiers;  "you  may  say 

[108] 


'John  Oliver  Hobbes 

that  I  am  conceited,  as  you  say  of  another  author, 
if  you  think  that  I  am.  I  have  no  objection. 
When  I  read  an  adverse  criticism  of  my  work,  I 
say  to  myself :  '  That  man  hasn't  written  that  with 
out  some  reason;  he  hasn't  worked  himself  up  into 
fury  just  for  the  enjoyment  of  being  in  one;  there 
must  be  something  in  my  book  that  has  irritated 
him.'  And  so  I  try  to  find  out  what  it  is,  and 
whether  his  disapproval  is  justified.  I  don't  say, 
however,  that  I  often  take  his  advice;  it  is  foolish 
to  take  criticisms  to  heart  and  let  them  interfere 
with  one's  personality.  If,  for  instance,  I  find  such 
a  competent  critic  as  Mr.  Courteney  condemning 
me  for  exactly  the  same  things  that  Mr.  Gosse 
praises  me,  I  simply  determine  that  the  next  time  I 
will  endeavor  to  please  both." 


[109] 


Amelia   E.   Barr 

In  Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,  New  Tork 


BY    MRS.    BARR 
Born  in  Ul'venton,  England 

Jan  Vedder's  Wife. 

A  Daughter  of  Fife. 

A  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon. 

Friend  Olivia. 

Bernicia. 

The  Last  of  the  McAlisters. 

A  Rose  of  a  Hundred  Leaves. 

Feet  of  Clay. 

Prisoners  of  Conscience. 


Mrs.  Barr  in  a  Corner  of  Her  Home. 


X 


Amelia   E.   Barr 

In  Cornwall-on-the-Hudson^  New  Tork 

AN  ideal  road,  long  sought,   has  been  dis 
covered.      It    winds    with    many    a    turn, 
under   the   June  sun  or    the   June   shade, 
over  bridges,  past  inviting  glens,   with  the  moun 
tains  beside  and  above  one,  a  present  joy  and  an 
incentive.    The  valley  is  like  an  outlived  past,  more 
and  more  pleasant  in  the  retrospect  as  it  is  left  far 
ther  behind  and  below;  all  its  asperities  softened, 
and  its  discomforts,  with  the  many  pettinesses  that 
were  a  part  of  it,  forgotten. 

The  road  leads  to  a  cottage — and,  doubtless,  be 
yond — but  at  present  whatever  lies  beyond  is  in 
the  nature  of  an  anti-climax.  Surrounded  by  trees, 
the  cherry  much  in  evidence,  the  cottage  stands  at 
an  elevation  of  1,700  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
river.  To  describe  it — but  whoever  yet  described 
a  house?  So  much  wood  or  stone,  so  much  archi 
tecture,  so  much  paint  or  paintlessness,  and  the  tale 
is  told.  If  I  write  that  this  house  has  gables  and 
upon  one  corner  a  hexagonal  tower,  surmounted  by 
a  conical  roof;  that  the  prevailing  color  impression 
is  red  or  red-brown;  that  a  broad  and  all-surround- 
[113] 


IV omen  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

ing  piazza  rises  from  a  sea  of  verdure  that  breaks 
about  its  foundations,  or  that  the  view  from  that 
piazza  explores  space  for  sixty  miles  as  the  crow 
flies  (if  crows  fly  so  far  from  their  homes),  what 
is  anyone  profited? 

But  if  I  add  that  a  literary  craftswoman  whose 
name  is  a  household  word  lives  in  the  cottage, 
drinks  inspiration  from  the  view,  and  has  her  work 
shop  in  the  tower?  Ah,  that  makes  a  difference. 
Now  the  house  has  a  soul.  There  is  a  secret  about 
that  tower-room  at  Cherry  Croft;  its  owner  has  a 
theory,  or,  at  least,  a  feeling,  that  the  place  where 
a  writer  works  should  be  small  and  very  exclusive. 
It  must  become  saturated  with  one's  own  person 
ality,  "  permeated  with  his  own  bacteria,"  till  such 
an  atmosphere  of  thought  and  individuality  is  cre 
ated  that  work  becomes  pastime.  A  general  edict 
of  exclusion  has  been  proclaimed,  so  that  no  dis 
turbing  presence  may  cross  the  threshold. 

In  that  carefully  guarded  room  "  The  Maid  of 
Maiden  Lane "  was  written,  and  "  The  Lion's 
Whelp,"  and  many  another  of  the  long  list  of  books 
that  have  followed  "  A  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon." 
It  is  something  to  be  a  celebrity.  The  boy  who 
pointed  out  the  house  to  me  said,  without  a  shadow 
of  disrespect,  "  There's  where  Amelia  Barr  lives." 
It  reminded  me  of  the  way  in  which  we  speak  of 
Presidents  and  crowned  heads. 
[114] 


Amelia  E.  Barr 

Face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Barr  one  is  most  im 
pressed,  I  think,  with  the  invincible  vitality  that 
refuses  to  recognize  the  passage  of  years  that  have 
gone  to  the  making  of  many  books.  When  she 
enters  a  room  it  is  as  though  a  burst  of  sunshine 
accompanied  her.  A  spontaneous  optimism  ani 
mates  every  word  and  gesture — a  "  heartiness " 
that  cannot  be  counterfeited.  Her  interest  in  life 
is  as  strong  and  her  expression  of  it  as  vivacious  as 
though  the  trials  and  conflicts  of  a  lifetime  were 
all  unknown,  and  her  capacity  for  work  has  been 
equal  to  the  demands  of  the  all-impelling  sense  of 
duty  that  is  the  keynote  of  her  character. 

The  love  of  literature  seems  to  have  been  in 
herent  in  Mrs.  Barr's  nature.  From  infancy  she 
has  been  a  devourer  of  books,  her  range  of  reading, 
even  in  her  teens,  covering  the  field  from  Shelley 
to  Saint  Chrysostom.  "  I  acquired,"  she  said,  "  a 
love  for  pure  and  sonorous  English,  so  that  a  poorly 
written  book  repelled  me."  When  in  Austin,  Tex., 
during  some  of  the  happy  years  of  married  life, 
Mrs.  Barr  was  described  as  "  always  going  about 
with  a  baby  under  one  arm  and  a  book  under  the 
other."  The  necessity  for  occupation  which,  after 
her  widowhood,  drove  her  into  the  ranks  of  literary 
workers  found  her  well  equipped  for  the  vocation 
in  which  she  has  been  so  successful. 

At  first  employment  came  in  the  way  of  editorial 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^tieir  Homes 

work  for  various  newspapers  and  magazines,  till, 
as  she  laughingly  declared,  "  I  believe  I  have  writ 
ten  for  nearly  every  paper  in  the  country."  Noth 
ing  came  amiss ;  no  commission  was  refused.  Stories 
and  editorials,  poems  and  advertisements  were  all 
undertaken  with  the  same  conscientious  determina 
tion.  "  I  found  ten  years  of  such  training  of  in 
calculable  benefit,"  was  her  later  verdict.  "  The 
variety  of  the  work  I  was  driven  to  undertake  en 
larged  and  improved  my  vocabulary  as  nothing  else 
could  have  done ;  but  I  am  glad  to  be  free  from  it." 

Mrs.  Barr's  capacity  for  work  is  far  above  the 
average.  Thirty-eight  books  have  been  the  result 
of  sixteen  years  of  almost  incessant  labor:  "And 
everyone  as  good  as  I  could  make  it,"  she  added. 
From  five  to  eight  consecutive  hours  of  literary 
labor  daily,  without  holidays,  would  exhaust  the 
strength  of  most  women  or  men,  but  to  Mrs.  Barr 
they  have  been  but  the  natural  exercise  of  unusual 
physical  powers.  Her  life  has  gone  not  only  freely, 
but  joyously  into  her  work. 

"  Of  all  my  characters,"  she  said,  "  I  think  that 
Cromwell  has  taken  the  greatest  hold  of  me." 
Then  she  added,  with  a  smile,  that  she  hoped  that 
her  ancestors,  who  fought  beside  Charles  I.,  would 
forgive  her.  "  All  of  my  characters  are  real  to 
me,"  she  admitted.  "  They  begin  to  live  and  have 
a  personality  of  their  own.  I  have  started  to  write 
[1*6] 


Amelia  E.  Barr 

a  villain,  and  afterward  fell  in  love  with  him  and 
made  him  my  hero." 

"  I  had  intended  to  treat  Washington  in  some 
thing  the  way  that  I  did  Cromwell,"  Mrs.  Barr 
continued,  "  but  as  I  studied  the  period  of  the 
Revolution  more  closely  I  found  him  a  sun  without 
satellites.  He  is  fascinating,  however."  The  book 
she  had  in  hand  was  to  come  between  "  A  Bow 
of  Orange  Ribbon  "  and  "  The  Maid  of  Maiden 
Lane,"  completing  that  trilogy.  It  takes  in  the 
period  of  the  American  war,  and  has  proved  to  be 
one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  author's  works. 
And  still  other  plans  for  books  were  taking  shape 
in  that  fertile  intelligence,  and  other  characters 
were  looming  in  the  distance.  Among  them,  tow 
ing  like  Cromwell  and  Washington,  the  great 
nebulous  bulk  of  John  Knox  appeared,  a  phantom 
yet,  but  by  and  by  to  take  on  flesh  and  blood. 

Mrs.  Barr's  work  is  now  almost  entirely  done 
through  the  medium  of  an  amanuensis,  though  for 
merly  she  was  her  own  type-writer.  She  takes  no 
holidays,  fretting  only  when  the  permitted  five 
hours  of  daily  labor  seem  insufficient.  When  win 
ter  comes  and  the  hill-side  is  bleak  and  inhospitable, 
Cherry  Croft  is  closed — a  place  for  the  snowdrifts 
to  envelop — and  the  owner  flits  with  her  literary 
and  other  neighbors  to  the  more  congenial  shelter 
of  the  city. 

["7] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

In  common  with  many  earnest  thinkers  Mrs. 
Barr  believes  in  a  reincarnation  of  the  soul;  not 
the  Buddhistical  article  of  belief,  however,  but  a 
Christian  expectation  of  a  succeeding  life  of  greater 
scope  and  wider  opportunity.  This  conception  fits 
well  with  the  tireless  activity  of  a  mind  that  can 
not  contemplate  pleasure  in  idleness.  "  I  have 
learned,"  she  said,  "  that  the  greatest  joy  life  can 
offer  is  the  fulfilment  of  duty."  Then,  after  dis 
cussing  the  strange  aptitudes  and  unaccountable 
traits  with  which  a  child  seems  to  be  endowed, 
peculiarities  that  appear  to  link  it  with  some  pre 
vious  existence,  she  exclaimed:  "If  ever  I  come 
back  here  I  want  to  come  as  a  man.  You  are  not 
hampered  in  a  thousand  ways  as  we  are." 

As  I  left  her  standing  at  the  door,  dressed  in 
white,  her  strong,  expressive  face  very  gracious  in 
the  afternoon  light,  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  second  a  wish  that  would  spoil  so  good  a  woman. 
The  neighborhood  of  Cherry  Croft  numbers  sev 
eral  men  whose  names  are  known  to  the  reading 
public.  The  cottage  next  above  Mrs.  Barr's  house 
is  that  of  Julian  Hawthorne,  while  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  Dr.  Lyman  Abbott  spends  his  summers. 
It  is  a  rare,  gracious  spot,  where  Nature  has  been 
lavish  with  her  favors.  The  sweeping  foliage  that 
clothes  the  slopes  of  the  Boterberg  (that  N.  P. 
Willis  named  Storm  King)  half  conceals  numerous 
[118] 


Amelia  E.  Barr 

glens  and  ravines  that  cherish  the  maddest,  most 
enticing  brooks  in  the  world,  and  the  air  is  as  pure 
and  invigorating  as  though  there  had  never  been 
such  a  thing  as  a  chimney  or  a  town  in  the  world. 

It  is  a  rare  place  to  work  and  it  has  harbored 
some  rare  workers.  Foremost,  at  least  in  point  of 
time,  among  the  men  of  pencraft  who  have  made 
this  region  their  home  was  the  versatile  and  popu 
lar  Willis.  The  road  which  we  now  reluctantly 
descend  from  Cherry  Croft  has  not  escaped  his 
all-describing  pen,  but  it  has  been  modified  and,  for 
comfort,  vastly  improved  since  the  days  when  "  Out 
doors  at  Idlewild  "  was  penned : 

"  The  ascent  of  this  range  is  by  no  means  the 
gracious  acclivity  it  looks  to  be  from  below.  It  is 
a  labyrinth  of  knolls  and  hollows,  over  which  one 
travels  like  an  ant  through  a  basket  of  eggs,  coming 
continually  upon  small  mountain  farms  islanded 
among  irreclaimable  rocks  and  so  hidden  behind 
and  among  them  as  to  seem  contrived  by  hermits 
for  inextricable  privacy.  Oh,  what  eyries  for  such 
human  eagles  as  wish  to  live  alone,  and  yet  have 
the  world  within  pouncing  reach." 


Louise   Chandler   Moulton 
In  Boston,  Massachusetts 


BY    MRS.    MOULTON 
Born  in  Pomfret,  Connecticut 

Bedtime  Stories. 

Some  Women's  Hearts. 

Swallow-Flights  and  Other  Poems. 

New  Bedtime  Stories. 

Random  Rambles. 

Firelight  Stories. 

Ourselves  and  Our  Neighbors. 

In  the  Garden  of  Dreams. 

Arthur  O'Shaughnessy  :   His  Life  and  His  Work, 

In  Childhood's  Country. 

Lazy  Tours  in  Spain  and  Elsewhere. 

At  the  Wind's  Will. 


8 

"*4 


XI 

Louise   Chandler   Moulton 
In  Boston,  Massachusetts 

THE  nearest  approach  to  the  literary  salon, 
as  it  flourishes  in  Paris  and  London,  is 
probably  found  in  the  occasional  gather 
ings  that  take  place  in  the  home  of  Mrs.  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton.  This  charming  woman  of  the 
world,  poet,  and  critic  of  books,  has  by  the  force 
of  her  personality  and  ability  made  herself  the 
natural  centre  of  the  bookmen  and  bookwomen  of 
Boston.  Whoever  may  have  accomplished  any 
worthy  thing  in  the  realm  of  letters  finds  a  hearty 
welcome  into  her  circle  of  acquaintances,  there  to 
mingle  with  men  of  larger  figure  in  the  world  and 
to  acquire  the  inspiration  that  such  intercourse  is 
bound  to  produce. 

Mrs.  Moulton  does  not  dwell  in  the  fashionable 
quarter  of  the  town.  It  was  expected  to  be  such 
years  ago,  but  the  destiny  of  residential  districts,  in 
Boston  at  any  rate,  is  proverbially  uncertain.  The 
plans  of  many  a  rich  and  aristocratic  family  were 
rudely  shattered  by  the  meteoric  rise  and  growth 
of  the  splendid  Back  Bay  district.  Of  all  this  you 
may  read  in  "  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham."  So 
the  South  End,  the  exclusive  name  of  the  immense 
[123] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

region  of  dwellings  stretching  from  the  business 
heart  of  Boston  to  Roxbury,  lost  its  caste,  but  not 
entirely  its  grand  air,  for  there  are  still  to  be  found 
on  its  cross  streets  and  squares  many  houses  whose 
beauty  and  dignity  put  to  shame  some  of  the  bizarre 
and  tasteless  creations  of  the  newer  Beacon  Street. 

It  is  in  Rutland  Square,  a  short,  connecting 
space  between  Tremont  Street  and  Columbus  Ave 
nue,  that  Mrs.  Moulton's  house  is  situated.  Rut 
land  Square  is  not  very  much  of  a  square,  truth  to 
tell,  but  as  it  is  a  trifle  wider  than  the  regulation 
street,  and  boasts  a  thin  strip  of  grass-grown  ground 
with  a  row  of  slender  trees  in  the  middle,  it  is,  by 
Boston  usage,  fairly  entitled  to  the  name. 

It  is  supremely  quiet.  To  turn  from  the  roar 
and  movement  of  Tremont  Street  into  its  calm  is 
like  suddenly  sailing  into  a  land-locked  bay  after 
a  tumultuous  sea.  At  its  farther  end  rises  the 
graceful  Gothic  spire  of  the  Union  Congregational 
Church,  beautifully  defined  against  the  sky  and  par 
ticularly  lovely  with  the  dull  red  of  sunset  behind 
it.  In  summer  it  is  a  pleasant  place,  much  affected 
by  nurse-girls  and  their  charges.  In  winter,  with 
out  its  relieving  ribbon  of  green,  it  is  very  like 
other  city  streets,  rather  monotonous  and  unin 
teresting. 

The  house,  whose  doorway  bears  the  figures  28, 
is  the  one  noted  residence  in  Rutland  Square.  It 
[124] 


Louise  Chandler  Monlton 

is  of  brick,  plain,  tall,  and  broad,  with  a  great 
sweeping  bow  of  the  fashion  of  forty  years  ago. 
To  reach  the  door  one  must  climb  a  steep  flight  of 
a  dozen  or  more  steps,  guarded  on  either  side  by  a 
curiously  curled  iron  railing.  The  hall's  plain  nar 
rowness  tells  of  the  bygone  style  of  house-building, 
when  rooms  were  everything  and  outer  space  noth 
ing.  The  drawing-room  itself  emphasizes  this,  for 
it  is  long,  high,  and  altogether  spacious  and  digni 
fied.  A  library  opening  from  the  rear  increases  the 
apparent  length  of  the  apartment,  so  that  it  is  a 
veritable  salon  in  its  physical  as  wrell  as  acquired 
attributes.  The  furnishings  are  of  simple  elegance 
in  color  and  design,  and  the  whole  scheme  of  deco 
ration  quiet  and  not  ultra-modern. 

In  this  attractive  room  are  more  treasures  than 
one  would  dream  of  at  first  glance.  The  fine 
paintings  that  are  scattered  here,  there,  and  every 
where  are  all  veritable  works  of  art,  presented  to 
Mrs.  Moulton  by  their  painters.  The  etchings  are 
autograph  copies  from  some  of  the  best  masters  in 
Europe.  Almost  every  article  of  decoration,  it 
would  seem,  has  a  history.  The  books  that  have 
overflowed  from  the  dim  recesses  of  the  library  are 
mostly  presentation  copies  in  beautiful  bindings, 
with  many  a  well-turned  phrase  on  their  fly-leaves 
written  by  authors  we  all  know  and  love. 

There  could  be  no  better  guide  through  all  this 
[125] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

treasure-house  of  suggestive  material  than  Mrs. 
Moulton  herself.  Without  question  she  knows 
more  English  people  of  note  than  does  any  other 
living  American.  As  she  spreads  out  before  the 
delighted  caller  her  remarkable  collection  of  presen 
tation  photographs,  she  intersperses  the  exhibit  with 
brilliant  off-hand  descriptions  of  their  originals — 
the  sort  of  word-painting  that  bookmen  are  eager 
to  hear  in  connection  with  their  literary  idols.  It 
is  the  real  Swinburne  she  brings  to  the  mind's  eye, 
with  his  extraordinary  personal  appearance  and  his 
weird  manners;  the  real  William  Watson,  pro 
foundly  in  earnest  and  varying  in  moods;  the  real 
George  Egerton,  with  her  intensity  and  devotion  to 
the  higher  rights  of  womankind;  the  real  Thomas 
Hardy  and  George  Meredith  and  Anthony  Hope, 
and  the  whole  band  of  British  authors,  big  and 
little,  whom  she  marshals  in  review  and  dissects 
with  unerring  perception  and  the  keenest  of  wit. 
Anecdotes  of  all  these  personages  flow  from  her 
tongue  with  a  prodigality  that  makes  one  long  for 
the  art  of  shorthand  to  preserve  them  and  turn 
them  into  marketable  print. 

Twenty  years  among  the  literati  of  England  is 
a  valuable  experience,  and  one  that  ought  not  to 
be  lost  to  the  world.  "  But,"  says  Mrs.  Moulton, 
when  this  subject  is  broached,  "  I  have  really  so 
very  little  at  command  in  the  way  of  notes  and 
[126] 


Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

memoranda  that,  despite  many  appeals  to  me  to 
write  a  volume  of  my  literary  reminiscences,  I  feel 
that  I  am  scarcely  competent  to  do  so." 

Mrs.  Moulton's  own  particular  "  den,"  where 
she  does  the  most  of  her  writing,  is  on  the  floor 
above.  Here  the  prevailing  impression  is  that  of 
books,  not  arranged  in  stately  order,  as  in  the  rich 
cases  of  the  dignified  library,  but  lying  in  more  in 
timate  freedom  and  giving  every  evidence  of  close 
companionship.  A  dainty  desk  is  conspicuous,  cov 
ered  with  all  sorts  of  pretty  appliances  and  orna 
ments.  It  is  a  literary  workshop  of  ease  and  com 
fort,  with  no  suggestion  that  the  Muses  ever  act 
as  slave-drivers  over  the  charming  occupant. 

Having  been  a  literary  woman  only  for  the  sheer 
love  of  her  profession,  Mrs.  Moulton's  habits  of 
writing  are  naturally  erratic  and  casual.  "  How 
I  work?"  she  repeats,  in  answer  to  the  query. 
"  How  I  don't  work  expresses  it  a  great  deal  bet 
ter.  I  am  the  laziest  author  alive."  And  this  with 
a  quizzical  smile  and  a  merry  twinkle  of  the  eye, 
as  if  she  did  not  care  to  be  taken  too  seriously,  but 
was  willing  to  put  herself  on  public  record  as  one 
ruled  by  love  and  not  by  fear  in  such  matters. 

Truth  to  tell,  however,  her  recent  record  of 
books  almost  within  a  year — one  the  volume  of 
dainty  juvenile  verse  called  "  In  Childhood's  Coun 
try,"  the  other  the  large  and  delightful  collection 
[127] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'Their  Homes 

of  sketches  of  travel  with  the  significant  title  of 
"  Lazy  Tours  " — would  scarcely  bear  out  her  claims 
to  idleness.  Then,  too,  she  was  preparing  a  new 
volume  of  poems  to  be  issued  soon  afterward.  She 
has  thrust  upon  her  a  great  deal  of  unsought-for 
work  in  reading  and  criticising  the  ebullitions  of 
ambitious  young  poets,  which  is  willingly  and  kindly 
done  whea  the  request  is  in  reason  and  does  not 
take  the  form  of  one  demand  that  was  made  upon 
her,  that  she  read  a  hundred  sonnets  and  pick  out 
about  a  score  in  the  exact  order  of  their  merit. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  social  duties  might  be  very  much 
more  exacting  than  she  allows  them  to  be,  for  she 
is  in  demand  everywhere.  She  is  as  brilliant  a 
guest  as  she  is  charming  a  hostess,  a  thorough 
woman  of  the  world,  with  the  saving  grace  of  sin 
cerity  and  kindliness.  Her  wit  is  tactful,  her  dis 
cussion  of  men  and  things  keen,  but  full  of  courtesy. 
She  has  a  generous  appreciation  of  her  brothers  and 
sisters  in  literature  not  always  found  in  a  woman 
who  has  reached  eminence.  And  best  of  all  is  her 
willingness  to  see  in  new  men  any  trace  of  genius 
or  power. 


[128] 


Mrs.    Humphry    Jf^ard 

In  London ',  England 


BY   MRS.    WARD 

Born  in  Hobart,  Tasmania 

Milly  and  Oily. 

Amiel's  Journal  [Translator  of]. 

Miss  Bretherton. 

Robert  Elsmere. 

The  History  of  David  Grieve. 

Marcella. 

Sir  George  Tressady. 

Helbeck  of  Bannisdale. 

Eleanor. 


k 


XII 

Mrs.   Humphry    W^ard 

In  London^  England 

PUT   not   your   faith   in    princes   or   in — au 
thoresses.     Perhaps,  in  justice  to  other  more 
reliable  members  of  the  craft,  this  statement 
should  be  limited,  but  since  comparisons  are  always 
invidious,  let  it  stand  in  the  above  general   form, 
and  he  who  runs  may  read. 

Much  to  the  writer's  satisfaction  the  author  of 
"  Robert  Elsmere  "  consented  to  receive  him — or 
rather  she  wrote  in  reply  to  a  request  for  an  inter 
view  that  she  would  be  happy  to  see  him  for  a 
few  moments  after  a  reading  from  her  own  works 
that  she  contemplated  giving  within  a  few  days  at 
the  Passmore  Settlement,  in  London,  and  that  she 
would  also  show  him  over  the  building.  A  compli 
mentary  ticket  for  the  reading  was  enclosed,  and 
then  the  following  day,  evidently  forgetting  this 
fact,  she  sent  another  ticket.  Now,  those  who  have 
acquired  experience  in  English  readings  are  usually 
wary  of  this  form  of  so-called  amusement,  having 
learned  that  the  English  race  was  intended  by 
Providence  to  furnish  the  audiences,  not  the  enter 
tainers  of  humanity;  but  with  an  object  to  attain, 
[131] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  'Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

one  is  willing  to  submit  to  much.  The  Passmore 
Settlement  is  a  most  praiseworthy  charitable  insti 
tution,  where  friendless  girls  receive  valuable  as 
sistance  and  advice  from  the  Marcellas  of  society 
— moreover,  the  girls  are  said1  to  speak  well  of  the 
settlement.  But,  then,  they  are  not  required  to 
attend  the  entertainments  organized  for  their  finan 
cial  benefit.  Unfortunately  the  writer  was  not  a 
friendless  young  girl,  so  for  two  hours  he  listened 
to  the  reading  of  scenes  from  "  Eleanor "  and 
"  David  Grieve  "  and  "  Sir  George  Tressady." 

"  And  now,"  said  the  authoress,  addressing  us 
when  she  had  at  last  laid  "  Eleanor  "  and  "  David  " 
wearily  to  rest  after  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  "  shall 
I  read  a  short  scene  from  '  Marcella,'  or  would  you 
prefer  the  closing  chapter  from  '  Sir  George  Tres 
sady,'  the  account  of  the  mine  explosion  and  the 
death  of  Sir  George?  The  selection  from  'Mar 
cella  '  will  last  only  a  few  minutes,  whereas  the 
other  will  require  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Per 
haps  that  will  be  too  long  for  you  ?  " 

"  '  Sir  George  Tressady ! '  'Sir  George  Tres 
sady!'"  cried  that  infatuated  audience,  so  "Mar 
cella  "  was  laid  on  the  table,  and  for  nearly  an  hour 
we  followed  the  writhings  of  Sir  George  as  he 
moaned  and  groaned  between  swoons,  dictated  a 
letter  to  his  absent  spouse,  and  anxiously  felt  his 
nether  limbs  to  see  if  they  were  growing  cold.  He 
[132] 


Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 

was  as  hard  to  kill  as  a  serpent's  tail.  But  all 
things  come  to  an  end,  and  at  last  even  Sir  George 
was  dead,  and  everyone  crowded  forward  to  shake 
the  hand  of  his  torturer  and  to  assure  her  how 
much  they  had  enjoyed  the  afternoon. 

Now,  I  had  watched  that  audience  closely,  and 
I  believe  the  untruth  was  unintentional;  there  are 
people  \vho  do  not  know  when  they  are  enjoying 
themselves,  and  these  were  evidently  of  that  class. 
They  had  followed  closely  the  reading  from  begin 
ning  to  end,  and  at  times  had  even  laughed  or 
looked  indignant  at  the  proper  place,  but  not  once 
had  their  faces  betrayed  that  absorbing  interest, 
that  absolute  forgetfulness  of  self,  that  is  the  true 
tribute  of  genius.  How  differently  must  the  audi 
ences  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  have  listened! 
Unwittingly  Mrs.  Ward  had  supplied  the  best  of 
her  own  ability.  To  be  sure  she  is  not  an  accom 
plished  reader,  as  measured  by  American  standards, 
and  to  that  extent  her  efforts  were  sure  to  fail  of 
their  effect;  but,  after  all  due  allowance  had  been 
made,  the  conviction  remained  that  we  were  listen 
ing  to  a  woman  of  talent  and  observation  and  in 
dustry.  Involuntarily  my  imagination  substituted 
the  figure  of  George  Eliot  for  the  one  at  the  read 
er's  desk,  and  the  convincing  words  of  Maggie 
Tulliver's  death  seemed  to  ring  in  my  ears,  and  the 
blood  throbbed  through  my  veins,  and  my  fingers 
[133] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  c£keir  Homes 

tightened  around  the  arm  of  the  chair  as  the  raft 
drifted  to  its  tragic  end.  What  a  difference! 

Mrs.  Ward  is  a  woman  of  impressive  appearance. 
Of  only  medium  height  as  measured  by  the  stand 
ard  of  the  non-athletic  generation  to  which  she  be 
longs,  she  is  nevertheless  not  to  be  passed  over 
lightly,  owing  to  her  clear-cut,  strong  features  and 
keen  glance.  "  A  woman  who  knows  her  own 
mind,"  I  told  myself  as  I  looked  at  her  firm,  solid 
figure  and  listened  to  the  metallic  ring  of  her  voice ; 
"  she  would  never  withdraw  from  a  position  once 
taken  up." 

Alas  for  man's  liability  to  error!  At  the  end  of 
the  reading,  after  all  the  female  literary  satellites 
and  all  the  eager,  hopeful  curates  present  had  made 
their  devoirs  and  had  awkwardly  gone,  I  approached 
the  authoress  in  order  to  explain  more  fully  my  ob 
ject  in  troubling  her  and  to  suggest  that,  in  view 
of  her  fatigue,  we  should  postpone  our  conversation 
to  a  more  fitting  time. 

"  Oh,  but  I  never  consent  to  be  interviewed !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  I  do  not  desire  to  interview  you,  Mrs.  Ward," 
I  said ;  "  I  should  simply  like  to  have  the  honor  of 
a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you  and  your 
authorization  to  publish  an  account  of  the  same 
after  having  submitted  it  for  your  approval." 

She  looked  doubtful,  and  said:  "Why,  I  had 
[I34J 


Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 

hoped  that  you  would  be  able  to  get  enough  for 
your  purpose  from  the  reading  to-day  and  from  my 
remarks  about  the  time  and  place  of  writing  '  Elea 
nor.'  Won't  that  suffice?" 

"  Hardly,  unless  you  insist,"  I  replied.  "  I  should 
like  to  have  an  ordinary,  every-day  talk  with  you 
about  literature  in  general  and  your  own  works  in 
particular,  some  time  when  you  are  not  so  tired ;  it 
would  be  unjust  to  trouble  you  now  after  the  strain 
you  have  been  under.  Don't  you  think  that  ar 
rangement  would  be  better?" 

"  Well,"  she  said,  evidently  still  in  fear  of  some 
calamity,  "  I  wouldn't  perhaps  mind  making  a  few 
remarks  about  '  Eleanor '  to  the  American  public, 
which  has  been  so  extremely  kind  to  me.  Suppose 
you  come  to  see  me  Wednesday  at  two  o'clock. 
Will  that  suit  you?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  I  said,  enjoying  the  delightful  sen 
sation  of  knowing  myself  to  be  regarded  as  a  source 
of  trouble ;  "  I  shall  be  charmed  to  take  advantage 
of  your  kind  permission." 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Ward  and  I  parted,  she  to  re 
turn,  presumably,  to  the  production  of  more  Elea 
nors  and  Davids,  and  I  to  await  the  arrival  of 
Wednesday  and  the  hour  of  two  o'clock.  Three 
days  passed,  and  Wednesday  came.  Midday  struck 
from  the  neighboring  tower,  and  the  fitful  London 
sun  broke  through  the  mists  and  fell  pale  and 
[1351 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

frightened  upon  the  astonished  city.  I  accepted 
the  omen  as  a  friendly  sign  from  the  god  of  chance, 
and  made  me  ready  to  start  out  on  the  search  for 
25  Grosvenor  Place,  S.  W. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door 
of  my  room,  and  the  maid  entered.  "  A  telegram 
for  you,  sir,  just  come,"  said  she.  I  opened  it,  in 
a  recollection  that  for  three  days  I  had  been  sub 
consciously  expecting  this  message.  "  Mrs.  Hum 
phry  Ward,"  I  read,  "  is  sorry  she  cannot  receive 
you  this  afternoon." 


Mrs.   Sherwood 
In  New  York  and  Delhi 


BY    MRS.    SHERWOOD 
Born  in  Keent,  New  Hampshire 

A  Sarcasm  of  Destiny. 

A  Transplanted  Rose. 

Manners  and  Social  Usages. 

Royal  Girls  and  Royal  Courts. 

Sweet  Brier. 

Roxobel. 

An  Epistle  to  Posterity. 

Here,  There,  and  Everywhere. 


XIII 

Mrs.  Sherwood 
In  New  Tork  and  in  Delhi 

THE  New  York  home  of  Mrs.  John  Sher 
wood,  who  is  perhaps  better  known  in 
literature  as  M.  E.  W.  Sherwood,  for  a 
few  years  past  has  been  the  Hotel  Majestic,  that 
stately  structure  which  rises  above  the  trees  that 
mark  the  western  limits  of  Central  Park  at  Seventy- 
second  Street.  In  the  social  life  of  this  family 
hostelry  she  is  a  dominant  figure.  Usually  she  may 
be  found  in  its  parlors  after  dinner,  the  centre  of 
the  throng  and  the  brightest  conversationalist  seen 
there.  Sometimes  she  entertains  a  large  company 
with  readings  from  her  own  writings  or  with  lect 
ures  concerning  her  travels  abroad  and  the  notable 
persons  in  all  ranks  of  life  whom  she  has  known. 
Not  infrequently  she  presides  at  other  hotel  gath 
erings  .where  entertainments  are  given  by  distin 
guished  strangers.  In  summer  she  may  go  to 
Seabright  or  Highland  Falls  on  the  Hudson,  to 
Newport  or  Saratoga.  At  the  latter  place  she  will 
most  likely  be  found  at  Yaddo,  the  guest  of  her 
devoted  friend,  Mrs.  Spencer  Trask. 

Mrs.  Sherwood's  country  home  for  many  years 
was  Delhi,  Delaware  County,  N.  Y.,  where,  re- 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

mote  from  the  village,  stands  a  stately  mansion  of 
an  older  generation  surrounded  by  wooded  lands, 
and  bearing  at  one  time  the  name  of  Sherwood 
Forest,  but  known  in  later  years  as  Woodland 
House.  The  visitor  to  Delhi  seeking  the  place 
must  make  a  pilgrimage  of  a  mile  and  a  half  down 
the  Delaware  River,  which  there  is  only  a  slender 
stream,  hiding  itself  away  under  elms  and  wil 
lows,  and  distant  only  twenty  miles  on  its  way 
from  its  source  to  the  sea.  The  property  is  now 
owned  by  Mrs.  Sherwood's  son,  Samuel  Sherwood. 

Here  one  finds  a  Colonial  mansion,  built  of  wood, 
stretching  its  wings  on  either  side  of  a  picturesque 
facade.  He  will  be  astonished  at  the  finished 
ornamentation  around  the  front  door  and  the  elab 
orate  detail  of  the  eaves.  The  beauty  of  the  situa 
tion,  lying  as  the  house  does  amidst  gardens,  and 
the  trees  of  a  fine  old  park  at  the  foot  of  a  moun 
tain  which  boasts  a  forest  primeval,  will  also  im 
press  him. 

This  charming  site  first  attracted  a  lawyer  of 
twenty  odd  years,  when  he  made  an  adventurous 
journey  in  search  of  a  home  in  1804.  He  was 
drawn  thither  through  unbroken  forest-paths  by 
oxen.  He  had  the  skill  and  courage  to  conquer 
the  wilderness  and  to  build  a  house  which  none  of 
his  descendants  has  been  able  to  equal.  How  he 
did  it,  with  his  slender  means,  has  ever  remained 
1  140] 


Mrs.  Sherwood 

a  mystery,  and  how  he  conquered  or  achieved  such 
an  architectural  success,  and  so  much  becoming  and 
educated  detail,  will  always  remain  a  mystery.  He 
afterward  moved  to  New  York,  where  he  became 
one  of  the  famous  lawyers  of  his  day,  and  completed 
a  long,  industrious,  and  successful  life  of  eighty- 
five  years,  dying  early  in  1863.  Here  at  Delhi  he 
had  his  summer  home  all  those  years. 

Mr.  Sherwood  left  this  estate  of  seven  hundred 
acres  of  forest,  field,  orchard,  and  garden  to  his 
grandson,  then  a  mere  boy,  who  had  been  named 
after  him.  These  two  have  been  its  only  owners. 
It  was  here  that  Mrs.  John  Sherwood  came  in  her 
early  married  life  to  spend  her  summers.  Here 
she  has  ever  since  done  much  literary  work.  It  is 
an  ideal  summer  home,  silent,  secluded,  and  health 
ful.  In  years  during  the  minority  of  her  son  she 
was  its  hostess.  Many  a  distinguished  visitor  has 
enjoyed  the  fine  old  trees,  the  noble  prospect  over 
hill  and  dale,  and  the  delicious  air.  Since  Mr. 
Samuel  Sherwood  succeeded  to  his  inheritance  she 
has  often  been  his  guest,  and  has  written  much  in 
the  parlor,  where  the  furniture  is  of  a  kind  that 
might  once  have  been  owned  by  Washington. 

The   house  contains  old   claw-footed   mahogany 

tables,  a  piano  of  the  gold  and  mahogany  of  the 

Napoleonic  era,  made  in  London  in  1826,  old  clocks 

and  chairs,  and  china  rare  and  pretty.      But  the 

[141! 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  (fheir  Homes 

beauty  lies  in  the  really  artistic  wood-carving  of  the 
pilasters  and  mantelpieces,  which  are  of  the  Ionic 
order,  and  as  carefully  executed  as  if  an  architect 
of  to-day  had  presided  over  their  finishing.  Nobody 
knows  who  did  this  work,  at  a  time  when  a  jack- 
knife  was  perhaps  the  main  implement  applied  to 
wood  in  Delaware  County  after  the  axe  had  felled 
the  tree.  Nearly  a  century  has  passed,  and  still 
the  faithful  old  chimney  draws  well,  the  back-log 
glows  in  the  ample  fireplace,  giving  most  hospitable 
welcome.  The  beams  are  strong  and  intact,  and 
Woodland  House  looks  as  if  it  might  last  another 
hundred  years. 

The  present  owner,  having  a  taste  for  landscape- 
gardening,  has  much  improved  the  park  and  grounds 
by  judicious  planting  of  hedges  and  the  exercise  of 
his  fancy  for  gardening.  He  respects  with  proper 
reverence  the  fine  old  place  and  never  modernizes 
its  beautiful  outlines.  It  has  inspired  a  sort  of 
hero-worship  in  all  the  descendants  of  Samuel  Sher 
wood.  One  of  Mrs.  Sherwood's  best  essays,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  Unknown  Picturesque,"  described 
it  in  Appletons  Journal  and  brought  her  a  letter 
from  Washington  Irving.  Here  was  written  a 
novel  which  has  had  much  success,  "  A  Transplanted 
Rose,"  and  her  first  novel,  which  she  says  had  no 
success  at  all,  called  "  A  Sarcasm  of  Destiny  " ;  but, 
as  if  true  to  its  title,  the  latter  led  to  literary 
[142] 


Mrs,  Sherwood 

popularity  at  the  South,  which  has  stood  her  in  stead 
with  later  work. 

During  an  industrious  literary  life  Mrs.  Sher 
wood  has  contributed  some  three  hundred  short 
stories  to  various  magazines,  more  than  that  num 
ber  of  essays,  besides  various  poems  and  an  endless 
correspondence  from  Europe,  much  of  which  found 
a  home  in  "  An  Epistle  to  Posterity."  Perhaps  her 
best  work  in  late  years  has  been  done  in  The  Satur 
day  Review  of  Books,  in  the  form  of  literary  essays, 
reminiscences  of  authors,  and  an  occasional  book 
criticism,  many  of  which  papers  were  written  at 
Woodland  House  at  a  window  looking  into  the 
tree-tops,  with  no  interruption  but  that  of  innu 
merable  squirrels,  some  pouter  pigeons,  a  thousand 
birds,  and  a  stately  peacock  who  walked  up  and 
down,  as  if  he  were  at  Haddon  Hall.  Delaware 
County  is  rich  in  birds — golden  robins,  Baltimore 
orioles,  scarlet  tanagas,  the  exquisite  scarlet  border 
woodpeckers,  thrushes  which  sing  at  dawn,  and  the 
bluebird,  looking  as  if  he  had  brought  with  him  a 
piece  of  the  sky. 

Amid  the  waterfalls  and  mountain  solitudes  in 
this  bit  of  Switzerland  in  America,  amid  the  finest 
of  primeval  forests,  with  elms,  maples,  and  locusts 
of  gigantic  growth,  and  with  a  few  very  noble 
pines,  Woodland  House  is  a  place  apart,  with 
brooks  to  make  music  through  its  glebe  ere  they 
[143] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

empty  their  bright  waters  into  the  Delaware,  which 
goes  on  gathering  up  treasures  until  it  expands  into 
the  great  tributary  which  carries  navies  on  its  bosom 
out  to  sea. 

When  one  writes  of  Mrs.  Sherwood's  home  in 
New  York  the  description,  more  naturally,  should 
turn  to  the  Windsor  Hotel,  rather  than  to  the 
Majestic.  And  this  recalls  the  great  calamity  of 
March  lyth,  three  years  ago,  which  swept  that 
hotel  off  the  earth.  The  loss  of  life,  although  large, 
was  not  so  great  as  that  in  the  Brooklyn  Theatre 
fire  of  many  years  before,  but  it  was  severe  enough 
to  cause  anguish  to  many  hearts. 

Although  the  Windsor  was  a  splendid  and  a  fash 
ionable  hostelry,  known  especially  to  the  better  class 
of  English  travellers  as  a  favorite  house  for  a  tem 
porary  stop,  it  was  essentially  a  home.  Year  after 
year  its  commodious  apartments  sheltered  the  same 
families,  and  people  who  went  for  a  week  stayed 
for  years.  It  had  a  quiet  elegance,  and  there  was 
a  home  feeling  within  its  walls.  Three  beautiful 
parlors  in  front  gave  everybody  a  view  of  the  gay 
panorama  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Its  octagon  parlor  was 
a  quiet  place  for  music  and  reading.  The  grand 
hall,  opening  up  to  a  roof  by  an  open  shaft,  gave 
excellent  ventilation,  and  the  grand  dining-room, 
the  largest  single  arch  in  New  York,  was  unsur 
passed  for  coolness,  light,  and  good  breathing  effects. 
1 144] 


Mrs.  Sherwood 

People  who  had  been  cremated  nightly  In  other 
hotels  went  to  the  Windsor  and  breathed  more 
freely  and  deeply.  This  dining-room,  lighted  by 
eight  large  windows,  let  in  the  winter's  sun  most 
healthfully;  but,  strange  to  say,  it  was  the  coolest 
room  in  summer  in  New  York.  Here  for  years, 
under  a  series  of  accomplished  hosts,  went  on  an 
unbroken  record  of  good  eating  and  careful  serving. 
Indeed,  so  famous  was  the  hotel  for  having  almost 
impossible  luxuries  that  it  was  boasted  that  during 
the  blizzard  of  March  12,  1888,  fresh  strawberries 
were  served  every  day!  When  asked  where  he  got 
them,  the  steward  replied :  "  In  the  roof-garden." 
"  I  lived  all  over  it,"  said  Mrs.  Sherwood,  in  re 
calling  the  hotel,  "  in  the  nine  years  which  I  made 
it  my  home;  but  I  got  to  like  best  an  apartment 
on  the  sixth  floor,  into  which  the  sun  poured  all 
through  the  dreary  winter,  when  it  shone  every 
where.  I  used  to  rise  at  five  to  see  Venus  as  the 
morning  star,  and  after  another  nap  would  again 
draw  my  curtains  to  see  the  sun  rise  in  a  bit  of 
scene  painting  of  opal  and  ruby  which  would  have 
made  the  fortune  of  any  theatre  in  town.  On 
cloudy  mornings,  when  a  sea  fog  made  the  aerial 
perspective  worthless  for  taking  an  observation,  the 
sun  would  seem  to  hang  like  a  red  ball  near  my 
window,  so  near  to  me  that,  had  I  been  less  in 
awe  of  his  Majesty,  I  would  have  extended  my 
[1451 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

hand  to  him.  Then,  after  enjoying  his  levee,  I 
would  go  back,  draw  my  curtains,  and  take  an 
other  nap. 

"  The  views  from  these  upper  windows  of  the 
Windsor  were  lovely,  stretching  over  countless 
spires  to  Weehawken  on  the  one  side  and  to  Long 
Island  on  the  other.  So  warm  and  sheltered  were 
these  apartments  that  one  could  raise  flowers  in  the 
windows,  and  no  fire  was  necessary.  They  were 
very  much  in  demand  by  rheumatics  and  invalids, 
and  one  lady,  who  had  a  valuable  collection  of 
paintings  and  rare  books,  took  one  of  them  for  the 
fine  light — alas!  Filled  thus  as  the  sixth  story  was 
with  a  very  sympathetic  crowd  of  people,  who  en 
joyed  the  immunity  from  noise  and  the  presence  of 
the  sun,  no  one  thought  of  the  danger  of  fire,  al 
though  it  was  often  brought  to  our  attention  by 
Mr.  Wetherbee,  that  master  of  organization,  whose 
energetic  rule  had  done  much  to  bring  the  Windsor 
to  perfection.  He  was  always  afraid  of  fire,  and  had 
no  hesitancy  in  saying,  when  he  left  the  Windsor 
for  the  Manhattan :  '  I  am  glad  to  leave  this  tinder- 
box,  this  fire-trap.' 

"  I  never  borrow  trouble  anywhere.  I  always 
let  it  come  the  whole  way,  quite  certain  that  it  will 
arrive  when  it  is  necessary.  So  that  I  do  not  re 
member  ever  being  afraid  of  fire  in  all  these  years. 
During  the  last  winter  in  the  Windsor,  when  I 
[146] 


Mrs.  Sherwood 

had  a  very  severe  fit  of  illness,  I  occasionally  looked 
out  at  my  iron  fire-escape,  just  outside  my  window, 
and  then  laid  a  warm  dressing-gown  and  slippers 
where  I  might  don  them  speedily.  I  cannot  now 
understand  my  temerity,  my  foolishness.  I  hid 
away  the  unsightly  rope  hung  there  for  my  safety, 
and  the  subject  of  fire  was  the  one  thing  which 
troubled  me  least. 

"  As  for  being  frightened,  as  one  ought  to  have 
been,  nobody  was.  The  Windsor  protected  many 
thousands  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and  then  burned 
down  in  thirty  minutes.  We  who  were  miracu 
lously  saved  watched  the  holocaust  with  wonder 
that  we  had  been  so  lapped  in  Elysium.  Perhaps 
the  ceaseless  pit-a-pat  of  the  watchmen  at  night 
kept  us  quiet.  The  house  had  been  put  under  ex 
cellent  surveillance.  Indeed,  one  of  the  surviving 
watchmen  told  me  that  '  the  fire  could  not  have 
occurred  in  the  night,'  and  perhaps  the  confusion 
of  St.  Patrick's  Day,  the  open  windows,  the  absence 
of  the  men  whose  duty  it  was  to  watch  fire,  helped 
to  the  final  catastrophe. 

"  I  started  by  appointment  at  2.30  o'clock  to  go 
down  to  call  on  Miss  Helen  McKinley,  on  the 
lowest  floor  on  the  Fifth  Avenue  side  of  the  Wind 
sor,  on  that  fatal  day.  Something  induced  me  to 
linger  and  take  a  final  look  at  that  apartment  which 
I  was  never  to  see  again.  It  looked  very  cheerful, 
[i47] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

with  a  great  pot  of  tulips  blossoming  in  the  window 
and  throwing  out  a  flaunting  flag  of  encouragement 
to  the  reluctant  spring.  Its  red  and  white  draper 
ies  and  its  Roman  blankets  were  imprisoning  the 
sunbeams,  and  around  the  walls  hung  the  portraits 
of  my  family  and  friends.  Friendly  photographs 
found  a  leaning  against  the  wall.  My  favorite 
books  were  on  my  bookshelves,  and  my  heavily  laden 
and  disorderly  writing-table  showed  the  life  of  the 
busy  woman.  My  needlework  lay  on  a  chair,  and 
my  half-read  novel  on  the  table.  Bric-a-brac  from 
all  over  the  world  was  spread  about,  and  under  the 
Roman  and  Spanish  blankets  were  chests  contain 
ing  the  accumulations  of  a  lifetime,  in  letters,  sou 
venirs,  manuscripts,  journals,  and  all  that  a  woman 
can  wear.  I  had  made  this  agreeable  corner  my 
winter  home.  I  had  been  forced  into  invalid  habits, 
and  I  had  made  it  so  cheerful  and  pretty  that  I 
could  scarcely  bear  to  leave  it;  and  as  I  look  back 
upon  that  momentary  lingering  I  cannot  but  feel 
that  it  was  intended  as  a  farewell  by  those  mys 
terious  spirits  whom  we  call  our  guardian  angels, 
who,  however,  forced  me  to  move  on  to  safety. 

"  I  think  I  had  not  been  downstairs  three  times 
during  the  winter.  I  certainly  had  never  made  a 
call  at  that  time.  As  I  crossed  the  vast  parallelo 
gram  which  separated  me  from  the  elevator  I  per 
ceived  a  strong  odor  of  kerosene,  and  as  Warren 
[148] 


Mrs.  Sherwood 

Guion,  our  Casabianca,  as  he  was  about  to  prove 
himself  an  hour  later,  opened  the  door  for  me,  I 
said :  '  Have  you  broken  a  kerosene  lamp  ?  '  '  No, 
madam,'  said  he,  '  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the 
Windsor  Hotel.' 

"  When  I  alighted  from  the  elevator  on  the  low 
est  floor  he  told  me  it  was  2.30  o'clock.  Perhaps 
I  had  chatted  about  twenty  minutes  with  the  ladies 
in  the  McKinley  parlor  before  we  saw  an  agitation 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Sixty-ninth  Regiment,  which 
was  deploying  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  Then 
a  puff  of  smoke  came  down  from  the  seventh  story. 
'  Ah,'  said  I,  '  a  little  fire  in  an  upper  room.'  I 
had  often  seen  such  put  out.  I  felt  quite  lethargic 
and  unlike  moving  until  some  ropes  came  down  past 
the  window,  and  finally  a  woman,  who  fell  prone 
from  her  rope.  Then  I  opened  the  door  into  the 
hall  which  led  to  the  Forty-sixth  Street  door,  and 
two  firemen  seized  me,  lifted  me  across  a  burning 
bit  of  matting,  and  deposited  me  in  Forty-sixth 
Street.  The  one  glance  which  I  gave  backward 
showed  me  the  flames  in  the  elevator  shaft. 

"  Hurried  across  that  crowded  street,  already 
full  of  engines,  people,  and  ambulances,  I  looked 
up  at  the  burning  house.  Tremendous  flames  and 
smoke  were  bursting  from  the  seventh  story,  and  a 
few  were  creeping  up  from  the  ground  floor  on  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  Madison  Avenue  side.  Down 
[i49] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

the  fire-escapes  women  were  crawling,  and  others 
were  painfully  gesticulating  at  the  sixth-story  win 
dows. 

"  Those  magnificent  fellows,  the  New  York  fire 
men,  were  already  putting  up  ladders  to  rescue  the 
latter.  Such  courage  had  they,  such  unselfish  devo 
tion  to  duty,  such  inspirations!  The  blood  of 
heroes  and  martyrs  seemed  to  be  surging  in  their 
veins.  Greater  than  the  courage  of  a  soldier  in 
battle  is  their  courage.  Greater  than  a  wild  Ind 
ian's  in  their  indifference  to  pain.  Superb  is  their 
resource  and  invention.  What  steady  pulses,  strong 
beating  hearts,  and  good  breath  must  they  have  as 
they  take  a  woman  from  a  sixth-story  burning 
room,  throw  her  over  the  shoulder  as  if  she  were 
a  bag  of  meal,  and  bring  her  down  one  of  these 
little  scaling-ladders.  They  seem  to  tread  on  air 
and  to  be  indifferent  to  the  law  of  gravitation. 
When  they  have  a  life  to  save  the  angels  lend  them 
their  wings.  Alas!  I  saw  sadder  sights,  as  women 
threw  themselves  from  these  windows,  were  picked 
up  by  ambulances  and  carried  off  to  hospitals. 

"  In  the  barber's  shop  where  I  had  taken  refuge 
were  some  poor  hysterical  mothers  who  had  come 
up  from  downtown  and  whose  children  were  in  the 
Windsor.  I  never  heard  whether  they  met  again. 
One  by  one  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  Windsor 
who  had  come  down  a  fire-escape  in  dressing-gown 
[150] 


Mrs.  Sherwood 

would  wander  in,  hurt,  wounded,  and  yet  com 
posed  and  sensible.  It  was  rather  the  habit  for  the 
Windsor  House  ladies  to  lie  down  after  luncheon 
for  a  short  sleep  before  going  to  afternoon  church 
or  for  a  drive.  They  were  an  industrious  and 
energetic  set,  devoted  to  shopping,  and  doubtless  got 
very  tired.  To  this  habit  many  of  them  owed  loss 
of  life,  as  well  as  loss  of  all  their  rings.  Had  they 
paused  a  moment  to  pick  up  a  cloak  they  perhaps 
would  have  been  burned  to  death. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  many  little  children  were 
lost,  but  I  know,  thank  God!  of  three  who  were 
saved.  Our  excellent  and  thoughtful  Warren 
Guion,  who  died  at  his  post,  going  back  for  some 
ladies  upstairs  after  the  policemen  had  tried  to  get 
him  out  of  his  elevator,  had  previously  saved  my 
three  little  grandchildren  by  telling  them  that  I 
was  not  in  my  room.  He  had  no  idea  of  fire,  but 
he  did  what  he  did  for  these  children  from  kind 
ness.  They  went  out  on  the  balcony  to  see  the 
procession,  and  a  cool,  strong  nurse  led  them 
through  burning  rooms  to  their  safety. 

"  I  found  shelter  for  the  afternoon  and  night  in 
the  hospitable  house  of  Mrs.  Seligman,  2  East 
Forty-sixth  Street,  directly  opposite  the  burning 
Windsor,  which  I  saw  blaze  all  night.  I  hope  I 
may  never  be  in  such  need  of  a  shelter  as  I  was  on 
March  I7th;  but  if  I  am,  I  hope  that  any  place 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  TWr  Homes 

may  look  as  safe  to  me  as  did  Mrs.  Seligman's 
laundry,  a  great,  spacious,  comfortable  city  house, 
stretching  back  indefinitely.  I  suppose  some  other 
people  may  have  as  good  a  basement,  but  I  do  not 
know  it.  Here  at  seven  o'clock  my  sons  found 
me,  safe,  unburned,  unscarred,  and  at  the  end  of 
an  awful  afternoon.  The  first  puff  of  smoke  was 
visible  from  the  Windsor  to  me  at  3  P.M.  At  3.30 
the  walls  had  fallen! 

"  It  would  be  like  writing  a  history  about  our 
civilization  to  describe  the  many  famous  people  I 
have  seen  at  the  Windsor,  from  Patti  holding  the 
hand  of  Nicolini  to  President  McKinley  and  Ad 
miral  Schley.  Famous  people  in  art,  in  science,  in 
social  life,  and  in  literature  passed  before  us.  It 
was  a  liberal  education  to  live  there  and  see  them 
go  by.  There  seemed  to  be  always  a  majority  of 
the  better  element,  of  gentlemen  and  of  ladies.  It 
was  well  fitted,  with  its  fine  banqueting-hall,  for 
great  fetes,  which  went  on  constantly." 


[152] 


Blanche    W^illis   Howard 

In  Munichy  Bavaria 


BY    MISS    HOWARD 

Born  in  Maine  ;   died  in  Munich  in 

One  Summer. 

Aulnay  Towers. 

Aunt  Serena. 

Guenn. 

The  Open  Door. 

One  Year  Abroad. 


XIV 

Blanche    Willis   Howard 

In  Munich,  Bavaria 

FOR  nearly  a  score  of  years  Blanche  Willis 
Howard  not  only  held  a  secure  position  in 
American  literature,  but  enjoyed  that  very 
rare  privilege  of  pleasing  both  the  critics  and  the 
public.  Yet,  to  accomplish  this,  she  did  not  con 
spire  with  the  press  agent  or  the  interviewer;  she 
was  neither  the  Queen's  favorite  novelist  nor  the 
prophet  of  a  new  Utopia.  In  fact  she  lived,  dur 
ing  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  quite  remotely  in 
Europe,  and  her  books  appeared  from  time  to  time 
with  no  flourish  of  trumpets,  without  so  much  as 
a  photograph  of  the  author.  In  spite  of  which  she 
was  perhaps,  with  the  single  exception  of  Mr. 
Henry  James,  the  only  American  novelist  who 
found  a  long  exile  and  a  firm  hold  upon  the  Amer 
ican  public  at  all  compatible.  In  her  death,  a  few 
years  ago,  the  reading  public  knew  that  it  had  met 
with  a  distinct  loss. 

Notwithstanding  the  dearth  of  newspaper  para 
graphs  about  her,  most  American  readers  knew  the 
author  of  "  One  Summer  "  as  Madame  von  Teuffel, 
and  realized  that,  while  she  was  a  loyal  New  Eng 
land  woman,  her  home  for  many  years  was  in  Ger- 
[i55] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

many.  In  order  to  swell  the  slender  store  of  facts 
the  writer  visited  Munich  and  interrupted  Madame 
von  Teuffel's  work  long  enough  to  chat  with  her, 
delightfully,  of  many  things. 

One  no  sooner  enters  Munich,  curiously  beauti 
ful  old  city  that  it  is,  than  one  recognizes  the  same 
subtle  flavor  that  has  lent  so  great  a  charm  to 
Blanche  Willis  Howard's  later  works,  particularly 
her  single  short  stories  and  her  "  Seven  on  the  High 
way."  The  truthfulness  of  these  sharply  etched 
pictures  is  indisputable,  once  one  has  felt  that  pe 
culiar  blending  of  mediaeval  angularity  and  modern 
expansiveness,  characteristic  of  Bavarian  Munich. 
And  it  has  a  wonderful  stimulus,  this  sunny,  Old 
World  atmosphere,  with,  on  the  one  hand,  its  aca 
demic  repose,  on  the  other  its  close  and  sympathetic 
connection  with  the  nerve  circles  of  modern  life, 
and,  permeating  and  coloring  all  like  the  time-stain 
on  some  old  tapestry  or  carving,  that  Catholicism 
which  holds  the  ingenuous  Bavarians  as  firmly  to 
day  as  it  did  hundreds  of  years  ago.  It  is  an 
atmosphere  which  compels  sympathy,  and  would 
tinge  any  work  produced  within  its  borders. 

Munich,  however,  was  only  one  of  many  homes 
of  the  writer  of  "  Seven  on  the  Highway,"  and  her 
outlook  here,  upon  one  of  the  most  quiet  parts  of 
the  city,  with  Ludwig  I.'s  towering  obelisk  close 
at  hand,  the  art  galleries  and  the  university  not 
[156] 


Blanche  Willis  Howard 

far  distant,  she  exchanged  periodically  for  Paris, 
London,  or  Guernsey — the  latter  a  favorite  spot — 
or  the  Orient.  Madame  von  TeufM's  literary 
penates  were  singularly  adaptable.  "  Given  a 
theme,  a  certain  amount  of  seclusion,  my  swan- 
pen,  and  my  type-writer,  and  I  can  do  my  work — 
such  as  it  is — almost  anywhere,"  was  her  confes 
sion  of  her  own  very  simple  requirements.  Her 
temporary  home-life  in  Munich,  which  was  simple 
and  charming,  was  spent  in  the  company  of  her 
sons  and  in  an  atmosphere  vibrant  with  her  own 
magnetic  personality.  There  existed,  by  the  way, 
an  unusually  beautiful  relationship  between  Ma 
dame  von  Teuffel  and  her  sons,  whose  devotion  to 
her  was  remarkable.  The  best  things  that  the  city 
had  to  give  were,  in  fullest  measure,  at  her  disposal. 
The  most  valued  lectures  of  the  university  were 
open  to  her — for  in  Germany  women  must  still 
enter  a  university  by  the  side  door  and  content 
themselves  with  Madame  von  Teuffel's  wise  reflec 
tion  that,  with  so  much  within,  it  was  foolish  to 
quibble  over  the  manner  of  one's  admission. 

Socially,  Munich  offers  the  charm  of  a  circle  that 
includes  artists  and  litterateurs  of  many  nationali 
ties,  and  wrhich  recognizes  as  its  moving  spirit  the 
poet  and  critic,  Paul  Heyse,  who  was  an  old  and 
intimate  friend  of  Madame  von  Teuffel's.  Apropos 
of  this  side  of  her  life,  it  ought  to  be  said  that 
[157] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Madame  von  Teuffel  was  quite  the  delightful  and 
brilliant  conversationalist  which  one  would  expect 
her  to  be.  The  humor  which  is  so  much  a  part  of 
her  writing  was  characteristic  of  her  in  all  circum 
stances.  With  all  this,  she  was  persistently  indus 
trious,  and  her  days — long,  delightful  German  days 
they  were,  which  always  seemed  to  contain  twice 
as  many  hours  as  American  ones — were  almost  in 
variably  spent  in  writing  for  that  American  public 
which  late  in  life  she  never  saw  nor  heard. 

As  we  walked  through  that  beautiful  park  which 
Munich  has  called  her  English  Garden,  I  learned 
of  Madame  von  Teuffel's  passion  for  all  varieties 
of  outdoor  life.  While  she  delighted  above  all  in 
the  sea  and  its  pleasures,  there  were  also  compensa 
tions  for  life  in  a  town,  chief  among  which  was 
the  wheel.  While  she  was  the  most  enthusiastic  of 
bicyclists,  she  reserved  some  of  her  energies  for 
riding  and  walking,  and  by  no  means  scorned  in 
door  athletics.  Swimming  she  practised  constantly, 
and  in  this  sport  maintained  a  prestige  which  few 
women  could  rival.  To  be  able  to  swim  easily  two 
miles  at  a  stretch  is  no  ordinary  accomplishment 
for  a  woman,  and  it  was  evident  Madame  von 
Teuffel  prided  herself  far  more  upon  this  feat  than 
upon  her  literary  successes. 

One  realized  in  her  that  one  had  indeed  found  an 
exception  to  the  American  temper  and  the  Ameri- 
[158] 


Blanche  Willis  Howard 

can  literary  method  when  one  learned  that  the 
author  of  "  Guenn  "  did  not  choose  her  surround 
ings  with  regard  to  their  availability  as  "  copy." 
At  home  we  may  consider  it  altogether  legitimate, 
and  even  commendable,  to  ruin  our  clothes  arid  our 
tempers  in  the  search  for  the  untold  story  and  the 
unpainted  scene.  Once  having  stumbled  upon  a 
"  type,"  to  dissect  him  until  he  affords  the  outline 
of  a  sketch  or  story — this  we  may  consider  a  neces 
sary  and  not  wholly  disagreeable  side  of  the  artist's 
mission.  To  Madame  von  Teuffel,  however,  that 
deliberate  probing  after  the  dramatic  and  pictu 
resque  which  a  Richard  Harding  Davis  or  a  Ste 
phen  Crane  would  readily  permit  himself  was 
repugnant.  She  adopted,  rather,  the  more  natural 
attitude  of  letting  her  stories  seek  her,  and  remod 
elling  them,  artist  fashion,  as  they  came. 

"  I  go  about  among  the  German  peasants  and 
working  people  and  fishermen  on  the  Baltic,  and 
the  mountaineers  in  the  Tyrol,"  she  admitted. 
"  But  with  no  ulterior  motive,  and  certainly  not 
with  a  note-book  in  my  hand.  Sooner  or  later  they 
are  apt  to  tell  me  their  stories,  I  suppose  because 
they  feel  my  human  sympathy  and  interest.  I  like 
them,  and  they  perceive  it.  But  I  do  not  pursue 
or  lie  in  wait  for  them,  and  I  do  not  catechise 
them." 

Which  was  quite  consistent  with  Madame  von 
[i59] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Teuffel's  further  point  of  view  that  the  Germans, 
or,  for  that  matter,  the  Americans,  were  of  interest 
to  the  writer  or  philosopher,  first  and  last,  as  hu 
man  beings;  and  that  to  study  them  merely  with 
reference  to  their  external  differences  from  other 
nationalities  would  be  superficial  and  unprofitable. 
Of  books  and  their  makers  Madame  von  Teuffel 
said  many  a  good  and  pertinent  thing.  One  noted 
in  her  that  fine  catholicity  of  taste  which  is  so  rare 
that  one  distrusts  it  at  first  appearance.  This  is 
but  the  mask  of  tolerance,  one  assures  one's  self, 
and  prepares  for  the  flourish  of  Ibsenism,  or  the 
fanfare  of  Tolstoi,  or  the  paean  of  ultra-modernism 
which  is  sure  to  sound  when  the  little  prelude  shall 
be  over  and  the  curtain  rung  up.  For  most  of  us 
are  the  prophets  of  some  one  little  literary  god, 
and  fall  into  the  way  of  expecting  in  others  the 
same  armed-to-the-teeth  fanaticism.  But  conversa 
tion  with  this  very  keen  student  of  men  and  of 
books  failed  to  reveal  any  such  shrieking  partisan 
ship.  A  constant  reader  of  the  philosophers  and 
scientists,  and  a  devoted  student  of  Goethe,  she  by 
no  means  lacked  sympathy  with  the  "  minor " 
writers,  and  kept  constantly  in  touch  with  the  lit 
erary  output  of  all  modern  languages.  Meredith 
she  considered  the  greatest  of  contemporary  Eng 
lish  novelists.  Kipling  and  Hardy  were  especial 
favorites.  But,  while  delighting  in  Kipling's  superb 
[160] 


Blanche  Willis  Howard 

vitality,  she  admitted  also  a  love  of  artistic  setting, 
of  style  per  se,  which  led  her  to  admire  Pater,  and 
to  single  out  especially  that  brilliant  essayist,  Alice 
Meynell.  For  our  own  Miss  Repplier  Madame 
von  Teuffel  professed  a  particularly  keen  sympathy. 
In  all  the  so-called  modern  problems — sociologi 
cal,  educational,  and  other — Madame  von  Teuffel 
took  much  more  than  a  passing  interest.  Nor  did 
her  sympathies  stop  at  the  border  of  the  "  woman 
question,"  though  here  she  preferred  to  be  reticent. 
Indeed,  in  this  respect  she  would  be  likely  to  agree 
with  Miss  Repplier,  that  "  there  are  few  things 
more  wearisome  in  a  fairly  fatiguing  life  than  the 
monotonous  repetition  of  a  phrase  which  catches 
and  holds  the  public  fancy  by  virtue  of  its  total 
lack  of  significance."  "It  is  hardly  reasonable  to 
suppose,"  Madame  von  Teuffel  said,  "  that,  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  I  have  myself  worked  since  I  was 
eighteen  years  old,  I  should  lack  sympathy  with 
the  welfare  or  progress  of  women."  Nevertheless, 
to  her,  as  to  many  rational  persons,  the  practice  of 
separating  the  work  of  men  and  women,  of  erect 
ing  "  women's  buildings,"  indefinitely  multiplying 
"  women's  clubs,"  and  of  forming  women's  polit 
ical  parties,  was  particularly  distasteful.  For  the 
present  she  has  before  her  eyes  the  cheering  spec 
tacle  of  a  very  considerable  group  of  women  who 
had  so  far  defied  the  supposed  thraldom  of  the 
[161] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

tyrannous  sex  as  to  take,  intellectually,  socially,  and 
artistically,  a  high  place.  Munich  is  crowded  with 
women  students,  every  one  of  whom  has  had  a 
sharp  victory  over  tradition  in  order  to  gain  the 
intellectual  power  which  she  guards  as  tenaciously 
as  the  German  man,  and  applies  as  cleverly  as  the 
American  woman. 

Madame  von  Teuffel  had  a  nest,  full  of  literary 
nurslings,  all  of  which  she  intended  to  let  fly  to 
America  in  good  time.  Novels,  magazine  stories, 
a  newspaper  correspondence  which  includes  a  bi 
monthly  department,  of  unusual  strength  and  piq 
uancy,  in  Collier's  Weekly — all  formed  part  of  a 
really  stupendous  amount  of  work  which  found  its 
way  through  the  rollers  of  that  busy  type-writer  in 
the  course  of  a  year.  Yet,  admirably  as  this  clever 
writer  gauged  the  temper  of  her  public,  and  un 
failingly  successful  as  her  work  had  been,  she  had, 
inevitably,  only  the  remotest  sort  of  connection 
with  the  audience  which  was  so  loyal  to  her.  The 
roar  of  the  Atlantic  was  quite  loud  enough  to  dull 
the  echo  of  public  opinion  long  before  it  reached 
quiet  Germany,  and  appreciation  must  have  come 
to  her  quite  distilled,  in  the  form  of  letters  or,  more 
or  less  belated,  through  the  press.  It  was  a  curious 
and  infrequent  situation,  but  Madame  von  Teuffel 
did  not  seek  to  avoid  it  by  becoming  a  link  in  any 
complacent,  mutually  adulatory  chain  of  literary 
[162] 


Blanche  Willis  Howard 

folk.  Of  "  log-rolling  "  in  principle  and  practice 
she  was  altogether  distrustful,  and  found  at  all 
times  much  the  greatest  stimulus  in  an  atmosphere 
not  freighted  with  the  prejudices  and  ready-made 
opinions  of  many  "  literary  centres." 

The  impression  which  one  carried  away  from 
Blanche  Willis  Howard's  German  home  was  that 
of  absolute  poise  and  tranquillity.  One  felt  that 
she  had  gained  that  enviable  isolation,  that  restful 
stepping  aside  from  the  current  of  things,  for  the 
lack  of  which  so  many  of  her  fellow-writers  must 
beat  their  breasts  in  despair.  For  the  paramount 
advantage  of  German  life  is  that  it  allows  one,  as 
we  express  it,  to  "  hear  one's  self  think " — and 
what  noise-deafened  American  writer  would  not  be 
grateful  to  listen,  now  and  then,  to  the  smooth 
whirr  of  his  own  mental  machinery?  And  were 
there  any  likelihood  that  the  vigor,  the  particularly 
trenchant  qualities  of  Madame  von  Teuffel's  work, 
would  result  from  another  such  self-imposed  exile, 
one  is  tempted  to  think  that  we  could  spare  a 
handful  of  writers,  now  and  then,  for  the  sake  of 
the  experiment. 


[163] 


Harriet    Prescott    Spofford 

In  Deer  Island,  Massachusetts 


BY    MRS.    SPOFFORD 

Born  in  Calais,  Maine 

Sir  Rohan's  Ghost. 

The  Amber  Gods. 

New  England  Legends. 

The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

Hester  Stanley. 

Art  Decoration  Applied  to  Furniture. 

A  Master  Spirit. 

In  Titian's  Garden  and  Other  Poems. 


XV 

Harriet   Prescott  Spofford 

In  Deer  Island^  Massachusetts 

WHOEVER  has  traversed  the  beautiful 
highway  from  quaint  Newburyport, 
where  the  glories  of  a  former  day  of 
sea-wealth  are  not  yet  fully  extinct,  on  toward 
Amesbury,  now  renowned  for  the  glistening  per 
fection  of  its  famous  carriages,  must  have  paused 
a  moment  in  sheer  delight  at  the  marvellous  pictu- 
resqueness  of  Deer  Island,  which  rises  from  the 
Merrimac  River  in  rocky  grandeur  at  one  of  its 
ends  and  slopes  to  the  water  in  green  and  sedgy 
peace  at  the  other.  "  The  home  for  a  poet "  is  the 
first  thought  awakened  by  its  superb  situation,  Its 
generous  size,  its  evident  age,  its  embowerment  in 
vines  and  trees,  and  its  architectural  beauty  of  that 
era  which  men  are  now  bringing  back  to  the  world. 
It  is  the  home  of  a  poet,  and  of  a  true  and  lovely 
woman  besides,  for  here  during  twenty-five  years 
has  lived  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford.  At  least,  it 
has  been  her  summer  abode,  and  in  all  those  quali 
ties  that  are  best  loved  and  dearest  it  is  her  real 
home.  Here  are  the  household  gods,  here  the  ten- 
derest  memories,  here  the  care  and  labor  to  make 
[167] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  T'heir  Homes 

the  place  a  paradise,  and  here,  doubtless,  the  chief 
inspiration  for  many  of  the  glowing  works  of  its 
mistress. 

Years  ago  Deer  Island  was  bisected  by  a  turn 
pike  road,  and  here  toll  was  taken  on  account  of 
man  and  beast.  Great  six-horse  teams  went  labor 
ing  into  town  with  timber  and  country  produce 
and  back  again  with  West  India  goods  and  New- 
buryport  rum  for  the  country  storekeeper.  The 
southern  shore  of  the  island  is  connected  with  the 
mainland  by  the  famous  "  chain  bridge,"  the  first 
of  its  kind  in  America.  This  structure  has  been 
rebuilt  to  some  extent,  but  it  is  essentially  the  same 
curious  affair  as  of  old,  rather  awe-inspiring  to  the 
stranger  who  passes  it  for  the  first  time.  Elec 
tricity,  that  devourer  of  all  likely  roads,  has  claimed 
this  one,  and  the  grinding  jangle  of  its  cars  has 
come  as  the  one  modern  tone  in  an  idyllic  spot. 
But  they  afford  you  a  pleasantly  apprehensive  sen 
sation,  for  as  your  car  touches  the  planking  of  the 
bridge  you  see  the  floor  ahead  undulate  like  the 
back  of  the  conventional  sea-serpent.  This  insta 
bility,  some  sixty  feet  above  a  swiftly  moving  river, 
is  not  good  for  weak  nerves.  However,  the  reflec 
tion  that  it  is  characteristic  of  chain  bridges  in 
general  is  sufficiently  reassuring. 

When  the  car  has  left  you  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  island,  and  has  gone  rumbling  on  over  the 
[168] 


Harriet  Prescott  Spoffbrd 

more  modern  bridge  that  crosses  toward  Amesbury, 
you  stand  for  a  minute  in  the  road  and  catch  your 
breath  at  the  absolute  beauty  of  the  place.  On  this 
lofty  plateau  the  eye  sweeps  around  from  the  green 
salt  meadows  near  Newburyport  to  the  splendid 
forests  across  to  the  west,  and  thence  to  the  Salis 
bury  shore,  where  the  lordly  Merrimac  bends 
sharply  around  and  is  lost  to  view.  There  is  a 
soft  rush  of  tide  at  the  foot  of  the  crags,  a  rustle 
of  the  wind  in  mighty  pines,  a  warm  glow  of  sun 
light,  and  a  dancing  glitter  of  wavelets  on  every 
side.  And  then  comes  the  peaceful  old  house, 
standing  quiet  guard  over  all  this  opulence  of  nat 
ure.  It  needs  only  the  crash  of  the  breakers,  dis 
tant  not  many  miles  to  the  eastward,  to  complete 
the  sum-total  of  natural  elements  that  have  their 
counterpart  in  Mrs.  Spofford's  wonderful  prose, 
with  its  wealth  of  color,  its  lofty  spirituality,  its 
tender  grace,  and  its  surging  passion.  I  think  that 
in  the  hunger  for  the  new  in  literature  the  splendor 
of  its  word-painting  may  have  faded  from  the  pub 
lic  mind  somewhat,  but  it  needs  only  a  re-reading 
of  "  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost,"  "  The  South  Breaker," 
and  "  Midsummer  and  May  "  to  convince  one  of 
its  pre-eminence. 

But  the  quaintest  of  little  rustic  gates  set  in  the 
hedge   invites   us  to  pass   into   the  more   intimate 
domain   of  the   Spoffords,   and,   lifting  a  mass  of 
[169! 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

vines  that  overarch  it,  we  stoop — and  conquer. 
Once  inside  the  sheltering  shrubs  and  trees  we  are 
beyond  any  suggestion  of  the  hurly-burly  world. 
Even  the  funny  old  stern-wheel  steamer  that  plies 
between  Haverhill  and  Black  Rock  moves  placidly 
up  the  stream  with  long,  lazy  wheezes,  as  if  loath 
to  make  itself  a  discordant  element  in  the  neigh 
borhood. 

Now  the  ancient  house  is  seen  to  be  of  noble 
and  artistic  proportions,  hip-roofed  and  dormer- 
windowed  in  the  good  old  style,  and  flanked  by  a 
generous  veranda,  over  which  the  climbing  trum 
pet  flowers  (my  visit  was  made  in  mid-winter) 
throw  their  scarlet  masses  in  picturesque  profusion. 
When  he  acquired  the  property  Mr.  Spofford 
turned  the  building  half  around,  so  that  it  no 
longer  faces  the  street,  but  looks  out  upon  the 
woods  across  the  river — a  tract  that  the  owner  of 
Deer  Island  had  the  rare  foresight  to  purchase,  so 
that  the  axe  of  the  utilitarian  could  never  strip 
the  prospect  of  its  beauty. 

Imagine  a  little  grassy  plain,  dotted  with  flowers 
and  bushes,  reaching  to  the  sheer  edge  of  a  bold 
and  rocky  precipice.  Picture  a  sort  of  Italian 
balustrade  along  this  edge,  and  a  great  number  of 
evergreens — firs,  spruces,  and  hemlocks — shading 
it;  seats  everywhere  and  of  every  description  tucked 
away  between  rocks  and  trees,  and  most  of  them 
[170] 


Harriet  Prescott  Sfojford 

overlooking  the  swirling  water  far  below;  then, 
more  to  the  northward,  several  groups  of  as  mag 
nificent  pines  as  you  will  find  in  any  primeval 
forest.  Far  out  on  the  point  they  stand,  a  poet's 
sentinels.  From  under  them  the  eye  is  drawn  to 
the  heights  on  the  left  bank,  where  the  "  Castle," 
a  somewhat  romantic  structure,  and  once  the  home 
of  Sir  Edward  Thornton,  dominates  its  immediate 
surroundings.  Around  to  the  northwest  the  tower 
of  the  once  famous  "  Hawkswood  "  rises  over  the 
trees.  Small  wonder  that  all  travellers  have  praised 
the  beauty  of  this  scene,  that  Whittier  loved  it, 
that  Bayard  Taylor  called  it  "  unexcelled." 

Within  the  house  are  more  delights,  most  attrac 
tive  of  which  perhaps  are  the  great  hall  and  the 
fine  old  staircase  that  branches  into  two  flights 
after  a  little  and  leads  to  an  upper  hall,  taking  in 
the  full  length  of  the  mansion.  The  "  home  room  " 
is  on  the  left  of  the  hall  in  the  westerly  end  of  the 
house.  It  is  a  parlor,  salon,  and  sitting-room,  all 
in  one,  and  certainly  it  is  large  enough  for  the 
triple  purpose,  its  length  being  the  entire  width 
of  the  dwelling.  Windows  of  proportionate  size 
give  it  a  very  airy  effect  and  furnish  frames  for 
charming  glimpses  of  forest  and  water.  Cheeri- 
ness  is  the  keynote  of  the  room.  The  furniture  is 
simple  and  attractive,  and  not  so  new  as  to  suggest 
lack  of  adaptability  to  the  human  frame.  There  is 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  TJieir  Homes 

no  particular  "  scheme  "  of  decoration,  nor  the  ex 
ploitation  of  any  fad. 

Excellent  pictures  of  all  sorts  are  on  the  walls — 
two  of  them  gems,  a  fruit  piece  by  Maltesi  and  a 
religious  painting  of  "  Christ  at  the  Judgment," 
attributed  to  Bassano.  This  picture  was  bequeathed 
to  Mr.  Spofford  by  President  Pierce.  If  genuine, 
it  is  of  great  value — but  there's  the  rub.  How 
ever,  no  one  will  venture  to  say  that  it  is  not.  A 
splendid  fireplace,  edged  with  polished  serpentine, 
gives  the  right  touch  of  dignity.  Just  off  from  the 
large  room  is  a  small  but  well-stocked  library,  and 
still  behind  that  the  quaintest,  coziest  den  imagi 
nable,  whose  most  salient  piece  of  furniture  seems 
to  be  an  old-fashioned  writing-chair,  with  a  huge 
table  for  its  right  arm.  Here  was  Mr.  Spofford's 
working-place  in  days  gone  by,  and  here  his  friends 
used  to  come  and  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  and  hap 
piness.  It  is  a  place  of  memories  and  dreams,  but 
for  that  matter  so  is  the  whole  domain,  with  its 
indescribable  air  of  something  remote  and  of  an 
other  world. 

Mrs.  Spofford,  when  the  writer  saw  her,  was 
slowly  recovering  from  a  long  and  serious  illness — 
the  first  of  her  life — and  she  saw  very  few  people. 
She  did  not  like  to  deny  any  visitor  the  pleasure 
he  might  get  from  an  interview  with  her.  "  But 
one  must  get  well  if  one  can,  you  know,"  she  said, 
[172] 


Harriet  Prescott  Spoffbrd 

with  a  smile.  Those  for  whom  the  prohibition  was 
removed  saw  a  slender,  graceful  woman,  with  sil 
very  hair  and  a  gentle  face,  whose  lines  of  just 
discernible  sadness  were  relieved  by  eloquent  and 
beautiful  eyes,  in  which  lay  the  light  of  faith  and 
humanity.  Of  her  own  work  she  talked  little; 
rather  would  she  hear  and  join  in  praises  of  the 
loveliness  of  her  island  home  or  discuss  the  doings 
of  the  modern  world.  She  was  surprisingly  in 
touch  with  the  problems  of  to-day,  and  her  thought 
is  of  value. 

A  peep  into  Mrs.  Spofford's  dining-room  should 
not  be  omitted,  for  it  is  an  exceedingly  old-fashioned 
place,  with  a  rare  antique  sideboard,  historic  china, 
and  other  furnishings  of  value  to  the  eye  of  the 
connoisseur.  A  very  curious  ornament  is  a  won 
derfully  artistic  ship's  bell,  found  floating  on  the 
ocean  long  ago  by  a  Newburyport  sea-captain.  It 
is  now  mounted  on  the  mantel,  and  its  mellow  tones 
are  employed  to  summon  the  family  to  table.  Here 
you  will  find  that  the  delightful  other-day  custom 
of  offering  cake  and  wine  to  the  visitor  is  still  in 
vogue,  and,  as  you  gracefully  accept  the  now  almost 
obsolete  hospitality,  pages  of  Miss  Wilkins's  charm 
ing  books  flit  across  your  mind.  Surely  there  must 
be  lavender  in  the  linen-chests  upstairs,  and  jam 
and  jellies  in  immaculate  rows  in  the  cellar  store 
room. 

[173] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

The  larger  part  of  the  island  lies  across  the  road, 
and  it  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  the  house-plot. 
First  come  the  trim  vegetable  gardens,  and  beyond  a 
very  respectable  hay-field.  On  the  right  shore  is  a 
magnificent  pine-grove,  with  its  smooth  floor  of 
brown  needles,  large  enough  for  the  picnics  of  whole 
regiments  of  Sunday-school  children.  Around  to 
the  left  a  pretty  summer-house  is  nestled  on  a  com 
manding  point,  and  near  it  is  a  little  wharf  where 
the  boats  of  the  domain  are  fastened.  On  both 
sides  of  the  road  the  usual  "  No  trespassing  "  signs 
are  conspicuous  by  their  absence,  but  there  is  a 
rather  formidable  dog  chained  up  in  the  yard  be 
hind  the  house.  Left  to  his  own  devices  o'  nights, 
he  is  probably  entirely  sufficient  to  check  any  chance 
marauders  who  might  lack  respect  for  poets. 

The  long  afternoon  slipped  speedily  away  in  this 
pleasant  pilgrimage,  and  the  low-lying  sun  was 
burnishing  the  river  with  saffron  and  pink.  It  was 
a  fitting  time  to  bid  good-by  to  Deer  Island  and  to 
the  woman  who  is  a  part  of  its  poetry  and  charm. 
As  it  has  been  for  twenty  years,  so  you  leave  it  now. 


[i74] 


Mrs.    A.   D.    71    Whitney 
In  Milton  Lower  Mills,  Massachusetts 


BY    MRS.    WHITNEY 
Born  in  Boston,  Massacfiuscttt 
Friendly  Letters  to  Young  Girls. 
Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood. 
The  Gayworthys. 

A  Summer  in  Leslie  Goldthwaite's  Life. 
We  Girls. 
Real  Folks. 
A  Golden  Gossip. 
White  Memories. 


I 


XVI 

Mrs.   A.    D.    T.    Whitney 

In  Milton  Lower  Mills,  Massachusetts 

FROM  Boston  State  House  to  Milton  Lower 
Mills  is  just  six  miles,  and  in  the  old  times, 
when  Governor  Belcher  was  the  ruler  of 
the  Massachusetts  Commonwealth,  a  line  of  mile 
stones  marked  the  distances  to  the  Governor's  Mil 
ton  House.  State  officials  and  clergymen  have 
been  fond  of  this  old  New  England  town.  One 
part  of  it,  indeed,  was  at  one  time  called  Zion's 
Hill,  because  in  close  neighborhood  half  a  score  of 
clergymen  had  their  permanent  or  their  summer 
homes,  and  in  the  group  were  included  S.  K. 
Lothrop,  Joseph  Angier,  Edward  Everett  Hale, 
Chandler  Robbins,  and  John  Weiss.  Among  civil 
dignitaries  living  in  Milton  perhaps  the  most  distin 
guished  was  Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson,  whose 
house  was  surrounded  by  grounds  whose  fame  has 
extended  to  the  present  day,  for  everyone  in  Mil 
ton,  at  least,  understands  what  it  means  when 
reference  is  made  to  "  The  Governor's  Garden." 
After  Hutchinson's  forced  departure  for  England, 
James  Warren,  President  of  the  Provincial  Con 
gress,  occupied  the  house,  and  Milton  was  well 
known  to  other  leading  patriots.  Close  by  the  Mil- 
[i77l 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

ton  station  is  the  old  Vose  House,  where  in  1774 
were  adopted  the  famous  Suffolk  Resolves,  which 
were  reported  by  General  Joseph  Warren.  It  is  an 
unpretending  Colonial  mansion,  which  one  might 
hardly  notice  but  for  the  tablet  stating  its  historic 
importance.  In  front  of  it  are  three  large  elms. 

Only  a  few  doors  beyond  the  historic  Vose  House 
is  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Whitney.  For  many  years 
she  lived  in  a  larger  house  farther  from  the  centre 
of  the  village,  known  as  Elm  Corner,  and  here  all 
her  important  books  were  written,  except  the  first, 
"  Mother  Goose  for  Grown  Folks."  But,  after 
her  son  decided  to  occupy  the  old  Whitney  home 
stead  (built  by  his  grandfather)  near  the  station, 
Mrs.  Whitney  gave  up  Elm  Corner  to  her  daugh 
ter,  Mrs.  T.  A.  Field,  and  her  family,  while  she 
built  a  smaller  house  for  herself  on  the  land  near 
her  son's  home.  This  house  of  Mrs.  Whitney's  is 
a  pretty  cottage  of  wood,  painted  light  brown,  with 
many  windows.  The  visitor  feels  its  individuality 
and  homelikeness  from  the  moment  of  entering  the 
small,  square  hall.  On  the  left  of  the  entrance  is 
a  light  and  airy  drawing-room,  with  a  large  centre- 
table  laden  with  books  and  photographs,  a  well- 
filled  bookcase,  carefully  selected  pictures,  and 
easy-chairs  and  handsome  pieces  of  old-fashioned 
furniture  brought  from  Elm  Corner.  Over  the 
mantelpiece  hangs  a  fine  portrait  of  Mrs.  Whitney's 


Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney 

father,  Colonel  Enoch  Train,  one  of  the  most  sub 
stantial  of  old-time  Boston  merchants,  whose  enter 
prise  established  the  first  line  of  packets  between 
Boston  and  Liverpool,  and  of  whom  his  nephew, 
George  Francis  Train,  has  just  written  entertain 
ingly  in  his  autobiography,  "  My  Life  in  Many 
States  and  in  Foreign  Lands." 

The  present  Warren  Line  is  a  direct  successor  of 
the  line  established  by  Colonel  Train.  Pleasant 
though  this  room  is,  it  is  not  Mrs.  Whitney's  work 
room.  Passing  through  the  hall  (where  hang  oil- 
portraits  of  Mrs.  Whitney's  father  and  mother) 
and  up  the  stairway  to  the  floor  above,  one  reaches 
the  little  study.  Here  at  a  small  square  writing- 
table  Mrs.  Whitney  spends  many  hours  daily. 
There  is  a  quaint  old-fashioned  desk  in  one  corner 
devoted  to  correspondence.  There  is  a  deep-toned 
oil-painting  of  the  Crucifixion  over  the  mantel — 
possibly  the  work  of  an  old  master — and  here,  as  in 
the  room  below,  are  many  books.  The  study  has 
only  one  window,  but  as  this  has  a  wide  easterly 
outlook  it  adds  more  to  the  charm  of  the  room  than 
would  three  windows  with  a  more  contracted  view. 
There  are  plants  in  the  window,  and  though  Mrs. 
Whitney,  when  writing,  sits  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  I  imagine  that  the  curtains  are  seldom  drawn, 
and  that  she  must  often  turn  from  her  seat  to  gaze 
at  the  beautiful  prospect. 

[179] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheti  Homes 

Milton  has  two  fine  natural  features — a  con 
stantly  rolling  surface  and  a  beautiful  winding 
river.  The  rolling  surface  culminates  in  the  Blue 
Hills,  the  highest  land  in  Eastern  Massachusetts, 
and  the  meandering  Neponset  River  is  a  constant 
delight  to  poet  and  artist.  The  road  from  the  sta 
tion  up  Milton  Hill  is  almost  like  a  bluff  above  the 
river,  and  from  the  back  windows  of  the  house  one 
can  look  far  beyond  the  river  and  the  marshes  to 
the  lower  part  of  Boston  Harbor.  From  some 
houses — and  Mrs.  Whitney's  is  one  of  them — one 
can  get  a  glimpse  of  the  old  bridge  and  of  some  of 
the  mills  at  the  falls,  for  the  Neponset  River  has 
a  practical  as  well  as  a  poetic  aspect. 

In  spite  of  the  allurement  of  the  view,  Mrs. 
Whitney  is  very  persistent  in  her  methods  of  work, 
and  always  keeps  steadily  at  the  thing  she  has  in 
hand,  whether  story  or  essay.  Anyone  familiar  with 
her  writings  must  realize  that  she  puts  herself  into 
them  very  thoroughly.  She  believes  that  conscien 
tious  literary  work  demands  the  best  that  is  in  the 
writer,  and  that  social  life  should  be  secondary,  ex 
cept  in  those  cases  where  an  author  has  unusual 
physical  strength. 

Although   Mrs.   Whitney   herself   is   now   some 

years  past  seventy-five,  it  is  not  flattery  to  say  that 

she  looks  much  younger.     Her  blue  eye  is  bright, 

her  hair  is  not  wholly  gray,  and  her  figure,  though 

[180] 


Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney 

slight,  does  not  lack  vigor.  In  her  widow's  black, 
with  small  and  becoming  cap,  she  has  a  graceful 
dignity  of  manner,  which,  added  to  a  certain  ner 
vous  force,  charms  all  who  meet  her. 

Though  Milton  is  so  near  Boston  she  has  no  part 
in  the  social  or  literary  life  of  the  large  city.  This 
is  her  own  choice,  for  she  believes  that  her  work 
demands  all  the  time  and  strength  that  she  has  after 
satisfying  the  claims  of  the  children  and  grandchil 
dren  to  whom  she  is  so  devoted.  Boston,  however, 
was  Mrs.  Whitney's  early  home,  and  the  house  is 
still  standing  in  Mount  Vernon  Street,  at  the  old 
West  End,  where  she  spent  her  girlhood.  George 
Francis  Train,  by  the  way,  passed  part  of  his  youth 
in  the  same  house,  for,  though  not  her  brother,  as 
some  biographers  will  have  it,  he  is  Mrs.  Whitney's 
own  cousin.  Of  her  father  Citizen  Train  gives  in 
teresting  glimpses  in  his  autobiography. 

Mrs.  Whitney  for  several  years  was  a  pupil  at 
the  famous  school  of  George  B.  Emerson,  and  in 
concluding  her  school-days  she  had  a  year  at  Miss 
Dwight's  boarding-school  at  Northampton.  She 
was  only  nineteen  when,  in  1843,  she  married  Mr. 
Seth  Whitney,  of  Milton,  and  went  to  live  in  the 
old  town,  which  has  been  her  home  ever  since.  The 
family  moved  to  Elm  Corner  in  1860,  but  before 
that  Mrs.  Whitney's  four  children  had  been  born 
in  the  house  at  the  corner  of  Randolph  and  Clinton 
[181] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

Avenue.  In  1859  Mrs.  Whitney  had  published 
that  witty,  poetic  satire,  "  Mother  Goose  for  Grown 
Folks,"  and  in  1857  that  thoughtful  poem,  "  Foot 
steps  on  the  Seas  " ;  but  until  she  went  to  Elm  Cor 
ner  her  literary  work  had  been  ephemeral,  appear 
ing  chiefly  in  the  religious  press.  The  first  thing  of 
hers  ever  published  was  a  contribution  to  The 
Religious  Magazine,  edited  by  Dr.  (afterward 
Bishop)  Huntington.  After  the  success  of  "  Moth 
er  Goose,"  her  publishers  urged  her  to  write  a  story, 
and  this  was  the  occasion  of  "  The  Boys  of  Che- 
quasset,"  based  on  what  she  observed  of  the  zest 
with  which  her  own  son  studied  ornithology.  But 
after  the  appearance  of  "  Faith  Gartney's  Girl 
hood,"  in  1863,  there  was  no  doubt  of  her  vocation, 
and  since  that  time  she  has  given  the  world  one 
volume  after  another  at  intervals  of  a  year  or  two, 
until  the  whole  list  now  includes  about  twenty-five 
tales.  "The  Gayworthys  "  came  out  in  1865,  and 
was  published  also  in  England.  Mrs.  Whitney's 
subsequent  books  have  been  published  and  well  re 
ceived  there. 

English  critics  have,  indeed,  been  very  cordial 
toward  Mrs.  Whitney,  and  more  than  one  has 
lamented  that  she  has  chosen  to  limit  her  scope  to 
anything  smaller  than  a  great  novel.  One  English 
critic  speaks  of  the  "  flashes  of  genius  that  illumine 
wide  expanses  of  thought,"  and  all  are  impressed 
[182] 


Mrs.  A.  D.  7*.  Whitney 

by  her  power  of  painting  minute  spiritual  aspects. 
But,  after  all,  Mrs.  Whitney's  audience  is  indiffer 
ently  young  or  old ;  nothing  that  she  writes  is  over 
the  heads  of  young  readers  (excepting,  perhaps, 
"Hitherto"),  yet  her  characters  have  a  strength 
and  her  stories  a  subtlety  that  make  them  appeal 
warmly  to  the  inveterate  novel  reader.  In  other 
words,  she  is  a  student  of  human  nature,  and  she 
makes  her  fiction  a  vehicle  for  teaching  some  of  the 
higher  truths.  That  the  characters  in  her  novels 
are  thoroughly  natural  is  shown  by  the  interest  with 
which  we  greet  them  as  they  reappear  in  some  other 
book  besides  the  one  for  which  they  were  originally 
designed. 

Marmaduke  Wharne,  Miss  Craydocke,  Rosa 
mond  Holabird,  Hazel  Ledworth,  Leslie  Gold- 
thwaite,  and  the  rest  come  in  time  to  seem  like  old 
friends.  Those  who  were  fond  of  her  stories  twenty 
years  ago  can  reread  them  now  with  pleasure,  and 
some  of  her  earliest  stories  have  still  a  large  sale. 
"  Faith  Gartney  "  and  "  Leslie  Goldthwaite  "  have 
an  especially  wide  circle  of  admirers,  and  even  in 
these  later  years,  a  generation  since  they  were  writ 
ten,  Mrs.  Whitney  receives  letters  from  time  to 
time  telling  of  this  or  that  baby  girl  who  has  been 
named  for  the  heroines  of  these  books. 

Many  of  Mrs.  Whitney's  minor  characters  linger 
long  in  the  memory.  There  is  Mrs.  Inchcape,  who 
[183] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

goes  about  with  a  canton  crape  duster  in  her  hand, 
saying,  "  My  home  is  my  life,"  and  Mrs.  Gair, 
who  attached  so  much  importance  to  the  uncertain 
and  sporadic  society  that  she  had  scrambled  into 
relation  with.  From  characterizations  like  these  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  Mrs.  Whitney  sets  a  proper  value 
on  the  narrow-minded  housewife  and  on  the  aspir 
ing  snob.  In  "  We  Girls  "  she  is  especially  severe 
toward  the  false  standards  of  those  American  girls 
who  are  always  drawing  intangible  social  lines. 

Mrs.  Whitney  is  too  liberal-minded  to  ignore 
what  good  there  may  be  in  the  modern  so-called 
woman  movement.  Yet  she  still  believes  that  the 
higher  development  of  woman  is  best  served  when 
it  runs  along  the  quieter  domestic  and  intellectual 
lines.  She  expresses  herself  strongly  in  conversation 
regarding  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  modern  life, 
and  is  not  certain  of  the  value  of  the  multifarious 
club  life  so  popular  with  women  now.  In  her  little 
volume  of  advice  for  girls  she  has  expressed  herself 
very  clearly  on  some  of  these  points.  The  excite 
ment  of  city  life  could  never  be  agreeable  to  one 
of  her  temperament,  and  she  seldom  goes  to  Boston, 
she  says,  except  to  pass  through  it  on  her  way  to 
the  quiet  New  Hampshire  farm  where  she  spends 
part  of  each  summer  with  her  daughter  and  grand 
children. 

Milton,  with  its  decided  individuality,  is  the  pro- 
[184] 


Mrs.  A.  D.  ?.  Whitney 

totype  of  towns  which  form  the  scenes  of  many  of 
Mrs.  Whitney's  stones.  The  village  people,  the 
workers  in  the  mill,  the  richer  people,  with  large 
estates,  all  are  there.  When  we  visit  Milton,  even 
a  superficial  glance  at  it  shows  us  that  Mrs.  Whit 
ney  has  made  good  use  of  her  five  years  of  residence 
there.  Near  to  Boston  though  it  is,  Milton  has 
reserved  its  village-like  characteristics  unusually 
long.  Electric  cars,  however,  bring  it  very  near  the 
city;  the  park  commissioners  are  planning  boule 
vards  that  will  bring  a  larger  throng  of  excursion 
ists;  yet  it  is  likely  to  be  a  long  time  before  the  old 
town  loses  its  air  of  rural  calm.  Besides  Mrs. 
Whitney,  William  Ordway  Partridge,  the  sculptor- 
poet,  and  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  are  among  the 
literary  and  artistic  people  who  have  lived  part  of 
the  year  in  Milton. 


[185] 


Margaret   E.    Sangster 
In  Brooklyn,  New  York 


BY    MRS.    SANGSTER 

Born  in  Neiv  Rochellt,  New  York 

On  the  Road  Home. 

Easter  Bells. 

Poems  of  the  Household. 

Home  Fairies  and  Heart  Flowers. 

Hours  with  Girls. 

May  Stanhope  and  Her  Friends. 

Little  Knights  and  Ladies. 


XVII 

Margaret   E.    Sangster 
In  Brooklyn,  New  Tork 

THE  story  goes  that  when  one  has  gath 
ered  a  four-leaved  clover,  if  he  will  remain 
upon  the  lucky  spot  and  look  about  him, 
others  of  this  small  herald  of  good  fortune  will 
soon  be  found.  This  was  recalled  when  the  writer, 
some  years  ago,  discovered  that  Mrs.  Margaret 
Elizabeth  Sangster,  who  then  lived  on  Greene  Ave 
nue,  in  Brooklyn,  was  surrounded  by  a  peculiarly 
literary  atmosphere.  Mrs.  Sangster  lived  in  the 
Bedford  district,  although  her  home  at  present  is 
in  Glen  Ridge,  N.  J.  Upon  the  opposite  side  of  the 
same  street  with  her  in  Brooklyn  lived  Will  Carle- 
ton.  Just  across  the  way  Mrs.  Terhune  (Marion 
Harland)  at  one  time  had  her  home  in  winter. 
Upon  the  square  below  lived  the  late  Julian  Ralph. 
Mrs.  Caroline  Creevey,  the  author  of  "  Flowers  of 
Field,  Hill,  and  Swamp,"  and  Mr.  Henry  Chad- 
wick,  who  is  extensively  connected  with  Brooklyn 
journalism,  were  also  neighbors  of  Mrs.  Sangster. 
Moreover,  Olive  Thorne  Miller,  Mrs.  Kate  Upson 
Clark,  Mrs.  Margaret  Hamilton  Welsh,  Mrs. 
Mary  Bolles  Branch  and  her  daughter,  Anna 
[189] 


IV omen  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

Branch,  dwelt  in  this  same  neighborhood.  It  would 
seem  as  if  the  clover  story  has  found  manifold 
exemplification. 

Mrs.  Sangster  was  born  in  New  Rochelle,  N.  Y., 
but  had  lived  in  Brooklyn  since  her  early  girlhood. 
She  attended  Professor  Paul  Abodie's  school,  and 
it  is  an  interesting  fact  that  Miss  Booth,  who  was 
editor  of  Harper's  Bazar  previous  to  Mrs.  Sang- 
ster's  assuming  that  post,  which  she  occupied  until 
quite  recent  years,  was  also  a  pupil  of  this  same 
school. 

Mrs.  Sangster  has  been  writing  all  her  life.  She 
began  to  read  when  three  years  old.  In  fact,  as  she 
herself  says,  it  seems  as  if  she  were  "  born  reading." 
She  was  sixteen  years  old  when  she  wrote  her  first 
story — wrote  it  without  the  knowledge  of  her  peo 
ple.  Her  choice  of  retreat,  singularly  enough,  was 
often  the  stairs,  where  she  would  write  for  hours. 
When  finally  she  had  finished  the  little  story — it 
was  the  story  of  a  child — she  sent  it  to  the  Presby 
terian  Board  of  Publication  in  Philadelphia.  After 
a  time  there  came  a  letter  accepting  her  story  and 
containing  a  check  for  $40.  A  short  time  after 
came  a  small  express  package  with  the  story  bound. 
With  this,  the  first  money  which  she  ever  earned, 
Mrs.  Sangster  bought  "  silverware,"  some  of  which 
she  has  yet. 

It  was  not  until  after  her  marriage  that  Mrs. 
[190] 


Margaret  E.  Sangster 

Sangster  made  a  profession  of  writing.  She  has 
now  been  writing  for  quite  thirty  years,  and  dur 
ing  this  time  has  experienced  none  of  that  lack  of 
success  of  which  we  so  frequently  hear  in  the  field 
of  authorship.  In  journalism,  reviewing,  and  manu 
script  reading,  as  editor,  author,  and,  above  all,  as 
poet — in  all  of  these  she  has  been  successful.  She 
is  better  known  and  loved  by  her  "  verses,"  as  she 
terms  them,  than  for  any  other  work  that  goes  to 
make  up  her  literary  personality. 

The  very  name  she  bears  gives  evidence  of  what 
fate  had  in  store  for  her.  Will  Carleton  says  of 
it :  "  There  has  always  been  a  regret  for  me  regard 
ing  the  name  of  Margaret  Sangster.  Had  '  Sang 
ster  '  been  '  Songster,'  then  would  the  name  in  every 
way  characterize  its  fair  possessor."  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  Helen  Keller,  when  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Sangster,  repeated  this  same  thought.  "  The  name 
ought  to  be  '  Songster,'  "  she  said,  showing  that  the 
music,  as  well  as  the  message,  had  reached  even 
this  one,  who  "  sees  and  hears  with  her  soul." 

In  the  Brooklyn  home  of  this  verse-writer  one 
looked  in  vain  for  the  cue  to  it  all.  We  know 
how  proverbial  is  lack  of  interest  in  the  home  and 
home  cares  of  the  literary  woman  as  we  find  her  in 
the  story-book;  but  let  it  be  said,  first  and  fore 
most,  that  Mrs.  Sangster  is  a  model  housewife. 
The  sense  of  order  and  industry  peculiar  to  the 
[191] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

ideal  home  reigns  supreme  with  her.  She  does  not 
say  that  a  woman,  busy  in  her  chosen  field  of  labor, 
does  not  neglect  her  home,  but  she  says  she  need 
not  do  so.  As  she  observes  in  her  introduction  to 
"  On  the  Road  Home,"  "  east  or  west,  home  is 
best" ;  it  should  stand  to  the  front  in  every  woman's 
life.  She  is,  she  says,  prouder  of  her  "  pie-crust " 
than  of  her  "  poetry." 

One  need  only  go  once  into  her  home  to  appre 
ciate  the  ever-prevailing  air  of  peace  and  restful 
silence  that  prevails  there,  the  kind  of  silence  which 
gives  audience  to  the  voice  of  the  soul,  the  heart, 
and  the  mind — the  three  agents  whose  union  is  an 
absolute  necessity  to  all  success  in  the  eyes  of  this 
woman,  who  is  a  real  "  queen  "  in  this  her  own 
domain.  To  no  one  so  much  as  to  him  who  has 
seen  Mrs.  Sangster  in  her  home  does  a  real  knowl 
edge  of  her  personality  belong.  All  that  is  wom 
anly  in  her  unusual  and  delightful  personality  is 
at  once  evident  at  her  fireside.  Home-maker,  poet, 
editor,  all  combine  to  make  the  hostess  what  she 
is,  and  as  she  rises  to  greet  you  in  her  low,  gentle 
voice,'  you  do  not  know  which  it  is  that  appeals 
to  you  most,  the  writer  of  the  helpful  messages 
which  you  have  read  for  years,  or  the  woman 
that  looks  through  the  blue-gray  eyes.  Her  hair, 
which  is  gray  now,  is  rolled  back  from  off  her  face 
in  a  way  peculiar  to  herself,  and  has  made  her  pict- 
[  192] 


Margaret  E.  Sangsfer 

ure  easy  to  identify.  Her  hands  are  gentle  of  touch 
and  small  and  firm — very  firm — which  shows,  as 
does  also  the  determination  in  the  face,  the  Scotch 
origin  of  their  possessor.  She  listens  with  atten 
tion  and  studies  with  interest  the  faces  of  those  to 
whom  she  talks.  She  is  straightforward  and  sin 
cere  in  conversation.  The  honesty  with  which  she 
faces  questions,  either  moral,  intellectual,  or  social, 
is  singularly  marked.  Her  affiliation  with  the 
League  for  Social  Service  gives  evidence  of  her  in 
terest  in  the  reforms  of  the  day.  The  object  of  the 
league  is  to  educate  public  opinion  and  the  popular 
conscience,  from  the  enlightening  and  quickening  of 
which  must  come  every  needed  reform,  whether 
moral,  political,  industrial,  or  social. 

When  questioned  about  her  verses,  her  method  in 
writing  them,  and  as  to  their  being  suggested  by 
fact  or  fancy,  Mrs.  Sangster  smilingly  said  that  they 
just  "  came  floating  to  her."  She  is  not  particular 
when  she  writes  whether  silence  exists  or  not,  or 
whether  anything  other  than  the  "  muse  "  be  whis 
pering  to  her.  That  is  sufficient  to  drown  all  else. 
It  is  a  peculiar  fact  that  so  thoroughly  has  she 
trained  herself,  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  be  inter 
rupted.  Should  one  come  to  her  in  the  midst  of 
her  writing,  she  lays  down  her  "  thought "  as  she 
does  her  pen  and  resumes  it  at  the  end  of  the  in 
terruption.  This  she  believes  to  be  a  matter  of 
[  193] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

training.  She  is  never  annoyed  by  conversation 
about  her.  She  holds  that  by  the  power  of  con 
centration  one  should  be  protected  from  the  en 
croachments  of  outward  disturbances. 

These  two  things,  she  says,  "  concentration  and 
health  " — these  two — are  the  requisite  elements  in 
the  woman  who  chooses  journalism  as  a  profession. 
Given  that  a  woman  or  man  has  imagination  and 
the  "  germ  of  the  writing  gift " — one  cannot  be  a 
successful  writer  without  this,  a  writer  being  born, 
not  made  —  and  add  to  this  concentration  and 
health,  and  there  is  nothing  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
success  in  this  field.  There  are  periods  when  Mrs. 
Sangster  lets  verse-writing  entirely  alone.  Then, 
perhaps,  some  morning  she  will  awaken  with  the 
gentle,  persistent  voice  of  the  muse  in  her  ear  and 
begin  to  write,  and  perhaps  will  not  stop  for  a 
week  or  more.  She  seldom  changes  a  word,  shaping 
and  planning  entirely  before  writing. 

"  Our  Own,"  the  best  known  of  Mrs.  Sangster's 
poems,  was  written  one  morning  at  the  breakfast- 
table  while  she  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  family. 
This  she  published  anonymously.  It  became  a  par 
ticular  favorite,  and  a  friend  filled  a  book  with 
clippings  showing  how  it  had  been  copied.  After 
the  conclusion  of  an  address  in  one  of  our  Western 
towns,  not  long  since,  Mrs.  Sangster  repeated  "  Our 
Own,"  ending  with: 


Margaret  E.  Sangster 

And  we  vex  our  own 

With  look  and  tone, 

We  might  never  bring  back  again. 

And  while  repeating  it  she  noticed  that  two  people 
in  the  audience — a  man  and  a  woman — clasped 
hands.  After  the  meeting  was  over  they  sought 
her,  and  said:  "The  little  poem  you  have  just  re 
peated  we  cut  out  upon  our  wedding-day  and  have 
kept  it  and  taken  it  everywhere  with  us  in  our  mar 
ried  life.  We  did  not  know  that  you  were  its 
author."  It  was  afterward  revealed  that  the  gen 
tleman  was  Locke  Richardson,  the  Shakespearean 
reader.  "Are  the  Children  at  Home?  "  was  writ 
ten  while  Mrs.  Sangster  was  in  the  South,  and  is 
another  popular  poem.  It  was  accepted  by  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  whose  editor,  W.  D.  Ho  wells, 
at  that  time  unknown  to  her,  has  since  become  a 
valued  friend. 

"  The  Help  that  Comes  Too  Late  "  was  written 
in  consequence  of  the  struggle  against  fate  of  a 
friend  whose  health  finally  gave  way  as  the  result 
of  discouragement.  After  his  death  a  friend,  com 
ing  to  Mrs.  Sangster,  said :  "  Had  I  realized  his 
need,  I  might  have  helped  him."  Mrs.  Sangster 
said,  "  Do  not  tell  his  wife,"  for  she  felt  that  by 
timely  aid  this  life  might  have  been  saved,  and 
that  help  proffered  now  would  be  more  than  the 
stricken  one  could  bear.  And  the  pity  and  the 
[i95l 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

sympathy  and  the  regret  of  it  all  she  embodied  in 
the  little  poem  which  has  touched  the  hearts  of  all 
who  have  read  it.  "  Sins  of  Omission,"  beginning, 

It  isn't  the  thing  you  do,  dear, 
It's  the  thing  you  leave  undone, 

is  another  favorite,  particularly  with  her  younger 
admirers.  It  was  written  without  any  particular 
object,  "  just  to  fill  up  space,"  and  bids  fair  to  do 
so,  as  it  has  been  extensively  copied  and  is  frequently 
quoted. 

Perhaps  in  nothing  does  Mrs.  Sangster  so  readily 
reveal  "  heart  power  "  as  in  her  "  Mother's  Poem." 
"  A  Twilight  Memory  "  refers  to  her  own  mother, 
whom  she  describes  as  being  very  like  J.  M.  Barrie's 
Margaret  Ogilvie,  so  much  so  that  he  would  be 
especially  valued  by  her  for  that  story,  had  he  writ 
ten  none  of  the  others  which  have  brought  him  so 
just  a  renown. 

In  Mrs.  Sangster's  library  works  of  the  standard 
authors  are  to  be  found.  She  has  no  care  for  special 
editions,  but  makes  a  particular  "  fad  "  of  books  of 
biography.  These,  she  says,  have  always  been  of 
especial  interest  to  her.  Lives  of  men  well  known, 
ill  known,  or  entirely  unknown  are  all  alike  to  her 
of  absorbing  interest.  She  does  not  care  in  the  least 
for  books  of  travel.  Robert  Browning  is  her  favor- 
[196] 


Margaret  E.  Sangster 

ite  poet.  Christina  Rossetti  claims  from  her  the 
first  place  so  far  as  women  poets  are  concerned. 

Of  the  modern  and  more  recent  authors,  J.  M. 
Barrie,  Ian  Maclaren,  and  S.  R.  Crockett  afford 
her  great  pleasure.  Rudyard  Kipling  she  considers 
to  be  the  finest  writer  of  short  stories  living.  She 
thinks  his  poetry  is  marvellous,  and  admires  its 
virility  and  strength.  No  author  has  given  her 
pleasure  to  the  extent  of  Mrs.  Oliphant;  she  has 
read  everything  she  has  ever  written.  Augustine 
Birrell  she  thinks  to  be  the  best  essayist  of  the  day. 
She  admires  Frederic  Harrison. 

One  of  the  interesting  features  of  Mrs.  Sangster's 
library  is  an  old-fashioned  clock  rising  from  the 
floor  almost  to  the  ceiling.  It  is  two  hundred  years 
old.  In  the  drawing-room,  just  off  the  library, 
there  stands  a  mahogany  desk  of  exquisite  workman 
ship,  which  falls  just  fifty  years  behind  the  clock  in 
age.  While  Mrs.  Sangster  loves  her  library  and 
the  many  books  therein — but  they  are  all  over  the 
house  for  that  matter — she  does  the  most  of  her 
writing  in  her  own  room,  where  she  has  her  desk 
and  the  books  which  are  her  nearest  friends.  She 
has  the  poet's  love  for  flowers,  and  mignonette  is  her 
favorite.  She  has  great  love  for  the  mountains  and 
a  peculiar  dislike  for  the  sea-shore ;  the  effect  of  the 
ocean  upon  her  is  such  that  she  cannot  be  happy 
within  the  sound  of  its  murmur.  And  because  the 
[197] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

noise  of  the  approaching  trolley-cars  suggest  to  her 
the  noise  of  the  ocean  she  finds  the  summer  months 
particularly  trying.  He  who  enjoys  the  privilege 
of  entering  the  home  of  Mrs.  Margaret  E.  Sangster 
may  congratulate  himself  upon  having  met  one  of 
the  most  womanly  women  in  the  field  of  literature 
to-day. 


[198] 


Ruth    McEnery   Stuart 
In  New  Tork  City 


BY    MRS.    STUART 
Born  in  A-voyelles  Parish,  Louisiana 

A  Golden  Wedding  and  Other  Tales. 

Carlotta's  Intended. 

The  Story  of  Babette. 

Solomon  Crow's  Christmas  Pockets. 

In  Simpkinsville. 

Moriah's  Mourning. 

Sonny. 

Holly  and  Pizen. 


XVIII 

Ruth    McEnery   Stuart 
In  New  Tork  City 

WHEN  you  enter  Mrs.  Stuart's  home, 
on  West  Fifty-sixth  Street,  New  York, 
you  are  struck  with  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  drawing-room  where  she  receives  her 
friends  and  the  library  where  she  writes.  The  for 
mer  reproduces,  by  means  of  quaint  old  furniture, 
something  of  the  environment  of  that  aristocratic 
life  which  was  known  in  the  ante-bellum  South, 
while  the  latter  contains  only  useful  things,  and 
shows  how  she  has  become  part  of  a  great,  bustling, 
modern  city. 

It  is  often  remarked  that  Southern  writers  lose 
the  "  atmosphere  "  of  their  stories  when  they  come 
North.  The  fear  of  such  a  calamity  is  said  to  keep 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  in  the  South,  where  he  can 
breathe  every  day  the  air  by  which  "  Uncle  Remus  " 
lives.  But  Mrs.  Stuart  has  kept  her  "  atmosphere," 
because  she  has  brought  it  with  her  and  has  caged 
it  permanently  in  her  Northern  home.  It  is  all 
but  impossible  to  realize,  when  one  is  seated  in  her 
drawing-room,  that  she  lives  high  up  in  an  apart 
ment  house  in  the  heart  of  New  York.  This  large, 
[201  ] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

square  room,  filled  with  beautiful  old  mahogany 
furniture  and  polished  brasses,  that  look  as  if  they 
had  been  there  a  century,  must  surely  be  in  some 
old  Southern  city — Richmond  or  Charleston  per 
haps,  or  New  Orleans.  You  feel  certain  that  if 
you  went  to  the  window  you  would  look  through 
bowed  green  Venetian  blinds  out  on  a  luxuriant 
garden  filled  with  roses  and  japonicas,  oleanders 
and  hibiscus,  and  warm,  delicious  sunshine. 

The  illusion  is  not  dispelled,  but  confirmed,  when 
the  mistress  of  this  room  comes  in — she  seems  so 
much  a  part  of  it  all,  with  its  old-time  elegance, 
grace,  dignity,  and  charm.  She  is  truly  Southern 
in  appearance,  with  abundant  wavy  dark  hair  and 
dark  eyes.  Her  gentle,  hospitable  ways  are  also 
"  to  the  manner  born." 

She  does  not  know  why,  but  most  people  think 
she  is  from  Virginia.  Reading  her  work  one  would 
soon  find  out  she  is  from  New  Orleans,  perhaps  the 
most  characteristic  of  Southern  cities,  and  the  scene 
of  many  of  her  stories.  The  furniture  of  the  whole 
apartment,  except  that  of  the  library,  was  brought 
from  her  home  in  Louisiana,  and,  as  one  would 
have  fancied,  has  been  handed  down  from  one  gen 
eration  to  another  for  very  many  years.  In  her  bed 
room  is  a  tremendous  four-poster,  exquisitely  carved, 
and  a  great  wardrobe  that  she  probably  called  an 
"  armoire  "  in  New  Orleans,  its  carved  pillars  sup- 
[202] 


Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 

porting  the  massive  top.  In  the  drawing-room  are 
several  old  pier  and  card-tables,  a  handsome  old 
secretary,  and  a  high-backed  curved-arm  sofa  that 
would  have  graced  even  Madame  Recamier  if  she 
had  reclined  upon  it.  Everywhere,  on  the  walls 
and  tables  and  mantels,  are  photographs,  engrav 
ings,  and  pictures  of  other  kinds.  One  or  two  of 
these  are  the  original  drawings  for  some  of  the 
illustrations  for  her  stories.  Mrs.  Stuart's  hobby  is 
her  brasses.  She  has  quite  a  fine,  though  small, 
collection  of  curious  hammered  copper  vases,  urns, 
and  ewers,  and  old  brass  scuttles  and  candlesticks, 
which  are  rare  and  perfect  specimens  of  this  art. 

Opening  off  this  room  is  the  little  study,  or 
library,  where  she  does  all  her  writing.  The 
simple  oak  bookcases,  the  revolving  desk-chair,  and 
especially  the  very  modern  and  utilitarian  big  roll- 
top  desk  and  type-writer,  bring  one  back  to  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Stuart  is  something  else  than  a  Southern 
woman.  She  is  a  writer  whose  stories  of  Southern 
life  are  every  day  more  enjoyed  and  appreciated 
throughout  the  English-speaking  world.  Her  ne 
groes  have  always  the  genuine  negro  humor,  which 
is  generally  unconscious,  while  her  "  po'  white 
trash  "  are  equally  amusing  and  pathetic  in  their 
plentiful  lack  of  humor.  Her  characters  are  real, 
and  she  touches  the  hearts  of  her  readers  because 
she  writes  from  her  own  heart.  She  says  she  loves 
[203] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

these  poor  people,  and  has  never  cared  to  write  of 
the  higher  classes  because  simple  folk  appeal  to  her 
more,  with  their  kind  and  artless  good-nature.  Her 
sympathy  is  as  strong  as  her  sense  of  humor.  What 
could  be  more  pathetic  and  at  the  same  time  more 
ludicrous  than  poor,  cross-eyed  Steve's  "  Second 
Wooing  of  Salina  Sue,"  or  the  monologues  of 
Sonny's  father? 

Mrs.  Stuart  is  a  very  busy  woman  always.  The 
amount  of  work  she  accomplishes  would  break  down 
many  a  strong  man.  She  rises  early  and  writes  for 
an  hour  or  so  before  breakfast,  and  after  that  meal 
writes  steadily  till  luncheon.  After  luncheon  she 
writes  but  little,  if  at  all,  as  she  generally  goes  out 
for  exercise  in  the  afternoon.  At  night  she  hardly 
ever  writes,  because  if  she  does  she  finds  it  hard  to 
sleep  afterward.  It  sometimes  happens  that  her 
mind  is  so  full  of  the  story  she  is  writing  that  she 
cannot  sleep  until  she  works  a  little  more  before 
retiring,  no  matter  how  tired  she  may  be.  She 
could  not  write  so  much,  for  physical  weariness, 
if  she  did  not  have  the  tremendous  assistance  of 
that  prosaic  machine,  the  type-writer,  which  has  suc 
ceeded  to  the  dominion  of  the  swan  quill  and  the 
gold  pen. 

Besides  writing,  Mrs.  Stuart  sometimes  gives 
public  readings  from  her  stories  and  monologues. 
She  is  very  successful  in  these,  as  she  imitates  the 
[204] 


Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 

darky  dialect  as  perfectly  with  her  tongue  as  with 
her  pen.  She  goes  only  to  those  cities  where  she 
has  been  particularly  invited,  and  where  she  knows 
she  will  have  sympathetic  audiences.  She  had  just 
returned,  when  the  writer  saw  her,  from  a  rather 
extended  trip  of  this  kind,  and  was  thoroughly  tired 
out  from  the  mental  and  physical  strain.  She  was 
in  town  only  for  a  few  days,  and  would  then  go 
out  into  the  country  to  some  quiet  place  where  she 
could  rest  for  a  few  weeks  and  get  fresh  air  and 
ride  the  wheel  for  exercise.  She  is  very  fond  of 
the  bicycle,  and  was  longing  for  the  opportunity  of 
riding  through  country  roads  in  the  early  spring 
days. 

The  reason  she  could  write  so  sympathetically  of 
the  great  love  of  Sonny's  parents  for  their  only 
child  is  because  she  herself  is  wrapped  up  in  her 
son,  an  only  child.  She  is  both  father  and  mother 
to  him.  He  is  worthy  of  her  devotion,  and  repays 
it  with  the  gentle  consciousness  of  a  Southern  gen 
tleman.  He  is  a  fine-looking,  athletic  young  fellow, 
who  has  walked  off  with  five  prizes  for  which  he 
competed  in  an  athletic  tournament. 

Mrs.  Stuart,  as  one  would  naturally  expect, 
keeps  only  negro  servants  about  her.  She  says  that 
she  could  not  have  white  ones  because  the  negro  is 
the  only  kind  she  is  used  to,  and  the  only  kind  she 
could  ever  understand  or  manage.  "  I  have  no 
[205] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

doubt  that  white  servants  may  be  better  and  cleaner, 
and  need  less  looking  after,"  she  says,  "  but  I  can't 
get  accustomed  to  them.  I  need  the  negro.'' 

The  truth  is,  the  negro  servant  gives  to  her  far 
Northern  home  some  of  the  familiar  aspects  of  the 
old  Southern  scenes.  She  thus  stays  nearer  to  the 
South  and  its  peculiar  life,  which  are  the  sources 
of  her  inspiration.  She  feels  as  if  New  York  were 
always  to  be  her  home,  and  she  likes  this  city  very 
much,  but  she  cannot  forget,  nor  does  she  want  to 
forget  for  a  moment,  her  strong  love  for  her  old 
home  in  that  quaint  city,  New  Orleans.  In  speak 
ing  of  this  feeling,  she  said : 

"  Whenever  I  hear  a  soft  Southern  voice  in  the 
cars  or  on  the  streets  of  New  York  it  makes  me 
homesick  at  once.  It  always  makes  me  think  of 
the  old  darky  a  friend  of  mine  met  one  day  in 
New  York  on  the  street.  This  friend,  who  is  also 
a  writer,  and  had  just  come  from  the  South,  was 
looking  for  the  Astor  Library,  and  could  not  find 
the  right  street.  At  last,  seeing  an  old  negro,  she 
asked  him  if  the  library  was  not  on  the  next 
block.  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  slowly :  '  No,  ma'am,  I  dunno  ef 
it's  on  de  next  block  or  no.  I  dunno  say  w'ere 
dat  house  is,'  and  then,  as  she  turned  to  go,  he 
called  out  after  her:  'Lady,  jes'  lemme  hear  you 
say  dem  words  once  mo',  please,  ma'am,  'caze  youse 
[206] 


de  fus'  pusson  I  seen  in  dis  city  dat  talks  jes'  like 
I  does.' 

"  My  friend,"  Mrs.  Stuart  went  on  to  say,  "  did 
not  relish  this  criticism  of  her  Southern  accent,  as 
she  fancied  she  had  got  quite  beyond  such  provin 
cialism;  but  I  told  her  that  it  was  the  finest  com 
pliment  that  could  have  been  paid  for  her  well- 
modulated  speech,  which  still  rang  so  true  to  the 
South  that  even  the  old  darky  recognized  it." 

And  to  hear  Mrs.  Stuart  tell  the  story,  giving  the 
negro's  words  their  rich  Southern  flavor,  one  can 
understand  the  sweetness  of  voices  which  charmed 
Thackeray  and  Matthew  Arnold. 

Writing  stories  is  the  greatest  pleasure  of  Mrs. 
Stuart's  life.  She  says  there  is  no  keener  joy  than 
to  find  a  good  story  developing  under  her  brain  and 
hands.  She  hopes  the  time  will  never  come  when 
she  would  feel  satisfied  with  her  work  after  it  is 
published,  for  then  she  knows  there  would  be  no 
hope  for  doing  any  better  work.  She  is  like  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra  in  the  hope  that  "  The  best  is  yet  to  be." 

She  has  written  a  great  many  short  stories,  which 
have  been  published  in  the  magazines.  She  prefers 
to  be  known  chiefly  as  a  writer  of  droll  tales  of 
our  Southern  peasantry.  There  are  many  other 
delineators  of  Southern  life,  but  none  of  them,  not 
even  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  understands  the  negroes 
as  well  as  Mrs.  Stuart.  She  knows  and  is  able  to 
[207] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

portray  all  their  superstitions  and  ways  of  thought, 
as  well  as  their  manner  of  life,  and  she  only  can 
be  compared  to  the  author  of  "  Uncle  Remus." 
She  is,  indeed,  his  legitimate  successor,  with  the 
addition  of  a  keener  sense  of  humor  and  a  deeper 
pathos. 


[208] 


Mary  E.  tf^ilkins 

In  Randolph,  Massachusetts 


BY    MISS    WILKINS 

Born  in  Randolph,  MassacAusetti 

A  Humble  Romance  and  Other  Stories. 

A  New  England  Nun. 

Young  Lucretia. 

Jane  Field. 

Pembroke. 

Madelon. 

Giles  Cory,  Yeoman. 

Jerome,  a  Poor  Man. 

Comfort  Pease  and  Her  Gold  Ring. 

In  Colonial  Days. 

The  Jamesons. 

Understudies. 


XIX 

Mary  E.  IPilkins 
In  Randolph,  Massachusetts 

NOT  so  very  long  ago  Mary  E.  Wilkins 
was  exploited  in  the  newspapers  in  a  way 
that  must  have  caused  her  a  good  deal 
of  annoyance.  She  was  about  to  be  married  to  Dr. 
Freeman,  of  Metuchen,  N.  J.,  but,  as  her  friends 
are  well  aware,  she  has  a  horror  of  notoriety.  She 
desires  to  be  allowed  to  pursue  her  work.  Many 
reports  about  the  circumstances  attending  her  mar 
riage  were  without  foundation  and  ridiculous,  but 
Miss  Wilkins  had  the  good  sense  and  the  dignity 
to  pay  no  attention  to  them.  • 

Ever  since  she  made  her  first  success  she  has  been 
sought  out  by  interviewers,  but  she  quietly  and 
firmly  refused  to  talk  for  publication.  All  she  has 
to  say  she  says  with  her  own  pen  and  over  her  own 
signature.  Of  her  work  and  her  success  she  takes 
a  common-sense  view;  she  is  ambitious  and  very 
happy  in  the  rewards  that  have  come  to  her  in  the 
way  of  friends  and  money.  Meanwhile  she  has 
sufficient  humor  to  endure  the  annoyances  that  have 
accompanied  them.  "  Isn't  it  splendid,"  she  said 
to  a  friend  shortly  after  she  began  to  prosper,  "  to 
think  that  I  can  have  all  the  money  I  need,  and 
[211] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

more,  too?  Why,  I  can  go  into  a  shop  and  order 
just  the  kind  of  a  hat  I  want  without  thinking  any 
thing  about  it." 

At  this  time  Miss  Wilkins,  though  her  talent 
was  unquestioned,  had  some  curious  limitations  as 
a  writer.  A  young  New  England  writer,  who  be 
gan  at  about  the  same  time  she  did  and  who  also 
achieved  an  ephemeral  popularity,  said  to  her  one 
day :  "  Oh,  Mary,  I  think  that  I  could  get  along 
ever  so  much  better  in  my  work  if  I  only  knew  how 
to  punctuate.  How  do  you  manage  about  that?" 
Miss  Wilkins  replied :  "  Well,  I  just  begin  a  sen 
tence  and  I  go  on  till  I  come  to  a  stop.  Then  I 
make  a  period  and  I  begin  all  over  again." 

During  the  first  few  years  of  her  success  Miss 
Wilkins  submitted  to  being  lionized,  and  a  most 
trying  ordeal  it  must  have  been  for  her.  It  would 
be  hard  to  imagine  anyone  less  suited  for  such  an 
experience.  In  late  years  she  has  gone  about  com 
paratively  little,  and  during  her  visit  to  England 
three  years  ago,  instead  of  allowing  herself  to  be 
exploited  by  many  English  admirers,  she  chose  to 
get  about  as  the  ordinary  tourist  does  while  trav 
elling  abroad. 

It  is  not  of  Metuchen  that  this  sketch  shall 
speak,  but  of  Randolph,  Mass.,  for  it  was  at  Ran 
dolph  that  fame  was  won  for  Mary  E.  Wilkins. 
That  pretty  and  pleasant  village,  something  less 
[212] 


Mary  E.  Wilkins 

than  a  score  of  miles  from  Boston,  contains  the 
home  of  the  most  delicate  and  appreciative  deline 
ator  of  rural  New  England  characters  who  has 
written  within  a  generation.  In  the  placidity  of  a 
little  town  she  wove  her  stories,  and  from  the  clear 
air  and  sightly  outlook  over  a  part  of  picturesque 
Norfolk  County  she  drew  inspiration  and  the 
strength  to  work.  Here  and  there,  perhaps,  she 
obtained  a  type  to  transfer  to  her  pages,  but  not 
often,  for  the  people  her  genius  creates  are  no  longer 
to  be  found  even  in  the  sleepy  village  to  which  she 
owes  allegiance. 

As  one  steps  from  the  train  into  what  he  has 
translated  the  brakeman's  shout  to  be  Randolph  he 
receives  first  impressions  that  are  anything  but 
promising.  A  well-spring  of  pure  literature  seems 
inconceivably  far  away.  A  bleak  shoe-shop  or  two 
loom  up  from  the  dusty  flatness.  The  road  is  ill- 
kempt  and  the  straggling  houses  are  cheap  and 
hideous.  But  out  to  the  east  graceful  spires  pierce 
the  sunny  sky,  and  waving  elm  branches  suggest 
better  things.  The  real  Randolph  is  over  there, 
away  from  the  noise  and  smoke  of  railroad  traffic, 
and  only  faintly  troubled  by  the  whistle  of  loco 
motives. 

After  a  short  walk  the  literary  pilgrim  reaches 
the  heart  of  the  village.  It  is  of  the  familiar  coun 
try  type,  being  one  long  street,  stretching  itself  out 
[213] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

for  over  a  mile,  and  lined  with  trees  and  gravel 
walks.  Here  are  plenty  of  the  good  old  square, 
flat-roofed  houses  of  sixty  years  ago,  some  with 
grass-plots  in  front  and  some  directly  on  the  street. 
Many  are  adorned  with  pillars,  speaking  of  former 
prosperity;  all  breathe  an  air  of  contentment  and 
peace.  To  one  just  from  the  pent-up  bricks  of 
Boston  this  long  double  row  of  quaint  dwellings  is 
a  gracious  sight  indeed.  The  few  would-be  mod 
ern  shops  that  disfigure  every  village  are  in  evidence, 
of  course,  but  to  atone  for  them  there  is  a  fine  old 
square  guarded  by  a  town-hall  of  the  rustic  Doric 
style  of  architecture  and  a  sprinkling  of  churches  of 
the  Sir  Christopher  Wren  type  of  steeple. 

Miss  Wilkins  was  not  herself  a  householder  in 
Randolph.  Having  no  family  connections  there, 
she  for  some  time  had  rooms  at  the  old  mansion 
of  John  Wales,  whose  ancestors  once  owned  most 
of  the  town.  The  house  is  perhaps  half  a  mile 
from  the  region  of  stores.  It  is  solidly  square  and 
comfortably  large,  as  befits  a  farmhouse  of  a  hun 
dred  years'  standing.  Its  white  paint  and  green 
blinds  tell  of  thrift,  and  its  quaint  flower-garden  in 
front,  with  its  neat  encircling  fence  and  gate,  be 
tokens  someone's  artistic  sense.  There  is  a  big  barn 
in  the  rear,  and  back  of  that  lie  the  smooth  and 
fertile  acres  of  the  Wales  farm. 

To  the  northwest  are  the  fine  undulations  of  the 
[214] 


Mary  E.  JVilkins 

Milton  Hills,  those  blue  sentinels  that  seem  to 
guard  every  part  of  Norfolk  County.  Swinging 
around  to  the  south  the  smoke  of  Brockton's  score 
of  shoe  factories  fills  the  October  air  with  haze. 
At  the  season  when  this  visit  was  made  everything 
was  brown  and  gold,  with  occasional  flashes  of  the 
dull  scarlet  from  some  stout  maple  whose  vitality 
the  frosts  of  autumn  had  not  yet  wholly  subdued. 
The  Wales  house  is  almost  the  last  in  the  thickly 
settled  portion  on  its  side  of  the  road.  Across  the 
way  are  clustering  dwellings  of  no  particular  style, 
and  behind  them  on  a  hillock  a  huge  iron  water- 
tower,  that  certainly  does  not  adorn  the  landscape. 
Truth  to  tell,  the  more  picturesque  part  of  Ran 
dolph  is  down  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  single 
street,  "  down  t'  the  Baptist,"  as  the  odd  expression 
is,  giving  the  name  of  the  dominant  church  to  the 
special  locality. 

Once  inside  the  Wales  homestead  one  saw  at  a 
glance  the  influence  of  books.  Miss  Wilkins  assured 
her  visitor  that  she  had  no  home,  but  a  home  at 
mosphere  pervaded  the  roomy  parlor,  and  she  who 
received  you  in  it  seemed  a  part  of  her  surround 
ings.  Of  course  it  was  difficult  for  a  stranger  to 
differentiate  between  her  belongings  and  those  of 
the  family,  but  the  new  books  and  the  photographs 
of  literary  lights  on  the  antique  mahogany  table 
must  have  been  hers,  while  the  excellent  pictures 
[215] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  *fheir  Homes 

scattered  about  the  walls  hinted  at  her  suggestion, 
if  nothing  more.  Here  was  the  modern  spirit  of 
literature  in  a  dwelling  a  century  old. 

The  author  of  "  Jerome  "  was  a  most  cordial 
hostess.  The  stranger  within  her  gates  was  made 
to  feel  that  he  had  wandered  to  a  friendly  place. 
If  he  were  a  book  man,  so  much  the  better;  if  not, 
she  would  have  taken  any  subject  he  might  offer 
and  handle  it  deftly  and  with  entertaining  com 
ment.  Upon  this  visit  the  talk  ranged  from  ancient 
New  England  customs  to  the  Boston  visit  of  An 
thony  Hope,  whom  Miss  Wilkins  found  a  very 
agreeable  gentleman  of  the  best  English  type.  Her 
sense  of  humor  is  keen  and  active,  and  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say  that  there  is  no  trace  of  the  tradi 
tional  blue  stocking  in  her  make-up.  She  chats  of 
books  and  authors  with  delicate  and  penetrating 
comprehension,  but  there  is  one  writer  whom  she 
does  not  like  to  discuss,  of  whose  success  she  will 
not  speak,  and  that  writer  is  Mary  Wilkins. 

Her  literary  workshop?  She  had  none  at  Ran 
dolph,  at  least  no  special  place  that  could  be  so 
called,  for  she  wrote  wherever  the  mood  seized  her, 
in  any  room  and  on  any  table — or  even  on  a  pad 
held  on  her  knees.  So  the  whole  house  was  more 
or  less  sacred  to  her  muse.  There  was  at  that  time 
no  extended  work  of  fiction  under  way  at  Randolph, 
but  Miss  Wilkins  felt  that  she  must  soon  begin  one. 
[216] 


Mary  E.  Wilkins 

After  a  year,  in  which  both  "  Madelon "  and 
"  Jerome  "  had  been  written,  she  had  been  giving 
herself  a  bit  of  rest.  But  the  habit  of  work,  she 
said,  was  strong  upon  her,  and  idleness  was  not 
for  long. 

Society  in  Randolph  is  a  rather  negative  quality, 
and  Miss  Wilkins  found  her  social  recreation  in 
numerous  trips  to  Boston,  where  she  has  many  warm 
friends.  She  was  to  be  seen  at  the  theatres  occa 
sionally  when  some  particularly  good  thing  was 
holding  the  boards.  She  disliked  to  be  lionized,  but 
at  times  this  process  was  not  to  be  escaped. 

Randolph  boasts  of  a  Woman's  Literary  Club, 
the  second  to  Sorosis  in  point  of  age  in  the  country, 
but  Miss  Wilkins  was  not  a  member,  nor  did  she 
take  active  interest  in  any  of  the  minor  organiza 
tions  of  the  village;  she  could  not  do  it,  she  said, 
and  still  give  her  best  time  and  thought  to  her 
chosen  work.  That  the  world  of  letters  is  better 
for  this  must  be  clear  to  him  who  can  understand 
and  appreciate  the  exquisite  care  with  which  all 
her  stories  have  been  penned. 


[217] 


Julia    W^ard  Howe 
In  Boston  and  Newport 


BY    MRS.    HOWE 

Born  in  New  York  City 

The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic. 

Passion  Flowers. 

The  World's  Own. 

From  the  Oak  to  the  Olive. 

A  Memoir  of  Samuel  G.  Howe. 

Later  Lyrics. 

A  Memoir  of  Margaret  Fuller. 

Is  Polite  Society  Polite  ? 

Reminiscences. 


I 


XX 

Julia    U^ard  Howe 

In  Boston  and  Newport 

MRS.  HOWE  in  late  years  has  had  two 
homes,  one  in  Boston  and  one  in  New 
port.  Both  have  been  centres  of  hos 
pitality  and  social  reunion.  In  Boston  Mrs.  Howe 
has  long  been  a  conspicuous  literary  and  social 
celebrity.  She  used  to  tell  a  good  story  against 
herself  of  a  Far  Westerner,  who,  in  coming  to  Bos 
ton,  said  he  wanted  "  to  see  Bunker  Hill  Monu 
ment,  the  State  House,  the  insane  asylum,  and 
Julia  Ward  Howe."  Of  course  he  probably  meant 
that  he  wished  to  see  the  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb 
asylum  where  Dr.  Howe  had  gained  his  celebrity 
as  a  philanthropist.  The  great  and  good  work  he 
was  doing  had  assisted  to  make  his  gifted  wife  a 
noted  character.  She  was  quite  well  worth  seeing, 
even  in  those  early  days,  before  her  remarkable  tal 
ents  had  given  her  an  enviable  place  as  poet, 
thinker,  and  public  speaker. 

Mr.  Ward,  her  father,  must  have  been  a  far- 
seeing  man,  much  in  advance  of  his  age  in  the 
matter  of  higher  education  for  women.  He  took 
into  his  house  the  learned  Dr.  Cogswell  to  teach 
his  daughters  the  whole  curriculum  of  a  Harvard 

[221] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  rfheir  Homes 

student,  a  thing  then  most  unknown,  and  Silvio 
Pellico,  the  Italian  exile,  author  of  "  Mia  Prigioni," 
taught  them  Italian.  The  natural  gifts  of  the 
oldest  pupil,  Julia,  always  commanded  Mr.  Cogs 
well's  admiration.  He  was  never  tired  of  talking 
to  her  down  to  the  day  of  his  death.  Newspapers 
in  those  days  were  full  of  the  young  American,  Dr. 
Howe,  who,  like  Lord  Byron,  had  gone  to  fight  for 
the  Greeks  against  the  Turks.  He  had  come  home 
almost  as  famous  in  America  as  Lord  Byron  was  in 
England.  It  was  unanimously  decided  by  New 
York  society  that  no  one  was  good  enough  for  him 
but  the  fair  and  learned  Julia  Ward,  of  Bond 
Street.  I  was  once  permitted  to  see  an  old  journal 
kept  by  one  of  the  Misses  Hamilton,  which  gave, 
in  these  words,  the  current  gossip  of  the  day: 

"  Walked  down  Broadway  with  all  the  fashion 
and  met  the  pretty  blue-stocking,  Miss  Julia  Ward, 
with  her  admirer,  Dr.  Howe,  just  home  from 
Europe.  She  had  on  a  blue-satin  cloak  and  a  white- 
muslin  dress.  I  looked  to  see  if  she  had  on  blue 
stockings,  but  I  think  not.  I  suspect  that  her  stock 
ings  were  pink,  and  she  wore  low  slippers,  as 
Grandmamma  does.  They  say  she  dreams  in  Ital 
ian  and  quotes  French  verses.  She  sang  very  pret 
tily  at  a  party  last  evening,  and  accompanied  herself 
on  the  piano.  I  noticed  how  white  her  hands  were. 
Still,  though  attractive,  the  muse  is  not  handsome." 
[  222  ] 


Julia  Ward  Howe 

This  truly  feminine  bit  of  journalism  would 
accord  with  Mrs.  Howe's  description  of  herself 
when  she  said  she  had  left  her  sisters  "  to  do  all 
the  beauty  for  her."  When  Dr.  Howe  took  his 
New  York  bride  to  Boston  it  was  rumored  that 
she  found  the  famous  Athens  of  America  rather 
dull  and  barren.  Indeed,  the  old  gossips  used  to 
tell  a  story  to  the  effect  that  when  the  doctor,  tak 
ing  his  wife  to  walk  one  evening,  pointed  out  the 
Charitable  Eye  and  Ear  Infirmary  to  her,  she  an 
swered  :  "  Indeed !  I  did  not  know  that  there  was 
a  charitable  eye  or  ear  in  Boston." 

She  objected  to  living  at  the  asylum  where  the 
doctor  was  beginning  his  life-work  of  making  sen 
sible  people  out  of  idiots.  She  declared  that  she 
was  afraid  of  idiots  and  could  not  stand  daily  in 
tercourse  with  them.  Dr.  Howe  soon  gave  her  a 
home  for  herself,  where,  at  South  Boston,  she 
began  those  salons  which  continued  for  long  years 
afterward.  The  Boston  of  that  day  was  all  in 
tellect.  Prescott  and  Motley  were  just  beginning 
their  life-work,  Longfellow  his,  and  Charles  Sum- 
ner  his.  In  the  churches,  James  Freeman  Clarke, 
Theodore  Parker,  Dr.  Bartol,  and  John  Weiss 
were  preaching.  Washington  Allston  was  paint 
ing  away  at  "  Belshazzar's  Feast,"  and  the  "  Auto 
crat  of  the  Breakfast  Table  "  had  not  even  begun 
to  be  funny,  except  in  a  very  small  way.  Mr.  Tick- 
[223] 


Women  Authors  of  Qitr  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

nor  was  thinking  over  Spanish  literature.  Every 
one  was  reading  Dana's  "  Two  Years  Before  the 
Mast."  Margaret  Fuller  was  holding  her  conver 
sations  in  a  plain  little  parlor.  Fannie  Ellsler  was 
dancing  from  the  top  stone  of  Bunker  Hill  Monu 
ment.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  making  orphic 
utterances  and  beginning  to  be  a  lecturer.  ^Wendell 
Phillips  was  making  those  abolition  speeches  which 
were  destined  to  aid  in  revolutionizing  the  United 
States. 

Mrs.  Howe's  first  literary  reputation  was  made 
on  her  return  from  Europe  by  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  verse,  which  contained,  among  other 
beautiful  things,  some  lines  to  a  Roman  nightingale. 
But  she  was  already  known  as  a  wit  and  conversa 
tionalist.  She,  of  all  women  I  have  ever  known, 
has  most  completely  reduced  conversation  to  a  fine 
art.  With  her  culture  and  beautiful  elocution  she 
has  always  mixed  with  it  so  much  humor  and  hu 
manity  that  her  talk  has  never  been  above  the  heads 
of  the  humblest  listeners. 

Her  humor  is  delicious.  She  has  a  keen  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  and  avoids  "  orphic  sayings."  On 
one  occasion  a  lady  in  Newport,  trying  to  get  a 
fine  sentiment  out  of  her,  said  to  her,  one  moonlight 
evening  on  her  vine-hung  veranda:  "Mrs.  Howe, 
do  say  something  lovely  about  my  piazza."  Where 
upon  everyone  listened  for  the  reply.  That  deli- 
[224] 


Julia  Ward  Howe 

cately  cultivated  voice  then  responded,  "  I  think  it 
is  a  bully  piaz  " — which  bit  of  slang  was  very  much 
appreciated  by  those  sensitive  souls  who  feel  the 
cold  perspiration  break  out  all  over  them  when 
they  fear  that  somebody  is  to  "  make  a  speech." 
Her  repartees  are  still  famous.  On  going  to 
Charles  Sumner  to  secure  help  for  a  runaway  negro 
she  met  with  refusal.  "  I  no  longer  care  for  the 
individual,"  said  he,  "  I  am  only  interested  in  the 
race."  To  which  Mrs.  Howe  responded:  "I  am 
glad  that  God  Almighty  has  not  got  quite  so  far  as 
that  yet." 

Differing  essentially  with  President  Eliot  of  Har 
vard  on  the  woman  question,  she  made  pungent  re 
torts  to  the  learned  and  impressive  scholar.  Dr. 
Holmes,  having  a  cold,  once  insisted  on  going  to  a 
public  meeting  where  Mrs.  Howe  was  to  speak, 
and  on  his  wife's  remonstrating  with  him  as  to  the 
imprudence  of  venturing  forth,  he  said :  "  Oh,  I 
must  go  to  hear  Mrs.  Howe  lay  out  Charles  Eliot 
cold."  This  band  of  wits  and  old  friends  said 
sharp  things  in  those  days  without  irritating  each 
other,  and  it  was  great  fun  to  listen  to  them.  Mrs. 
Howe  was  one  of  the  first  abolitionists  and  one  of 
the  very  first  to  found  women's  clubs,  to  speak  in 
public,  and  to  argue  for  female  suffrage  and  higher 
education. 

Meantime  her  home  was  filling  up  with  beautiful 
[225] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

daughters,  who  have  made  for  themselves  distin 
guished  names.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Howe  are  the  only 
very  celebrated  couple  I  have  ever  known  who  have 
been  so  fortunate  in  their  children  as  to  leave  on  them 
an  impress  of  what  was  noblest  in  themselves.  Julia 
Romana,  the  oldest  daughter,  born  in  Rome,  was 
the  most  exquisite  of  women,  and  the  most  unselfish. 
She  married  a  young  Greek,  Anaguix,  one  of  Dr. 
Howe's  rescued  children,  with  whom  she  taught  the 
blind,  deaf,  and  dumb  from  choice,  and  on  their 
marriage  these  two  handsome  young  people  found 
no  wedding  journey  so  attractive  as  to  travel  with 
these  poor,  bereaved  people.  She  so  well  taught  a 
deaf  and  dumb  man  German  that  she  enabled  him 
to  travel  through  Germany  alone.  She  would  read 
Shakespeare  to  Laura  Bridgman  on  her  sensitive 
hand  by  means  of  her  own  perfect  fingers.  She 
died  young,  at  her  post,  leaving  a  sort  of  fame  like 
that  of  St.  Rosalie,  who  left  the  world  at  Palermo — 

Beloved  of  all  the  youth  of  Palermo, 
St.  Rosalie,  retired  to  God. 

I  had  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  once  visiting  the 
blind  with  Mrs.  Howe  and  lunching  with  her. 
Afterward  she  allowed  me  to  see  her  "  children," 
as  she  called  three  hundred  blind  people  to  whom 
she  was  giving  back  their  lost  sense.  She  opened 
a  world  to  them,  and  perhaps  it  was  a  better  world 
[226] 


Julia  Ward  Howe 

than  the  one  they  would  have  seen  had  God  re 
moved  the  cloud  which  covered  their  visual  orbs. 
Florence,  the  next  daughter,  famous  for  her  musical 
gifts,  married  Mr.  Hall,  and  followed  her  mother 
as  author  and  public  speaker.  She  is  more  like  her 
mother  in  appearance  than  any  of  the  others.  The 
third  daughter,  Laura,  married  Mr.  Richards,  of 
Maine,  and  became  the  author  of  many  stories  and 
children's  books.  This  lady  was  renowned  for 
beauty. 

Maud  Howe  made  for  herself  a  name  in  literature 
when  very  young  by  writing  "  A  Newport  Aqua 
relle,"  in  which  she  gave  a  somewhat  quizzical 
picture  of  her  famous  relative,  Ward  McAllister. 
She  married  John  Eliot,  an  artist,  in  Rome.  Mrs. 
Eliot  has  given  lectures  and  has  written  for  the 
London  and  Chicago  papers.  The  first  time  that 
I  was  permitted  to  see  Mrs.  Howe  "  at  home  "  was 
as  the  guest  of  this  youngest  daughter. 

Mr.  Marion  Crawford  was  also  their  guest,  and 
had  the  manuscript  of  "  Mr.  Isaacs  "  in  his  desk. 
They  were  all  so  bright  and  witty,  and  the  com 
pany,  embracing  all  that  was  fashionable  and  at 
tractive  in  Boston,  made  the  afternoon  tea  and 
little  dinner  most  memorable  to  me.  Mrs.  Howe 
had  the  misfortune  to  break  her  leg  while  I  was 
with  her.  Then  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  how 
she  was  adored  by  the  Boston  women  of  her  par- 
[227] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

ticular  clientele,  whose  flowers  came  in  perpetual 
tributes. 

Mrs.  Howe  has  always  lived  much  in  the  eye  of 
the  world — a  scholar  and  a  thinker.  She  has  also 
been  fond  of  society,  a  great  diner-out,  and  a  leader 
of  the  literary  coterie  of  Boston,  which  included  the 
foremost  minds  in  America.  A  deep  religious  vein  in 
her  character  has  led  her  much  into  the  society  of  the 
clergy,  and  her  Bible  studies  seemed  to  me  to  form 
a  part  of  every  morning's  work.  I  noticed  that  a 
large  Bible  always  lay  open  on  a  table  in  her  bed 
room.  I  dare  say  she  could  read  the  Scriptures  in 
Hebrew.  Dr.  Howe  had  taught  her  Greek,  and 
she  once,  in  Athens,  in  returning  thanks  in  the  col 
lege  which  he  had  founded,  used  most  excellent 
modern  Greek  to  those  embarrassed  students  who 
had  not  yet  mastered  the  English  tongue,  the  lan 
guage  of  their  benefactor. 

I  saw  Dr.  Howe  only  once,  and  that  was  at  a 
"  blue  tea  "  which  Mrs.  Howe  gave  to  me  at  her 
cottage,  seven  miles  from  Newport,  just  before  his 
death.  He  was  a  very  handsome  man,  with  eyes 
of  a  peculiar  blue,  and  very  intense.  His  youngest 
daughter  inherited  these  eyes.  He  was  nervous  and 
ill  at  the  time,  and  I  could  only  judge  what  he 
must  have  been — one  of  the  most  attractive  and 
useful  men  of  his  generation.  They  had  only  one 
son,  Henry  Howe,  who  made  his  mark  as  a  scientist. 
[228] 


Julia  Ward  Howe 

Through  Miss  Maud  Howe  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  her  gifted  and  eccentric  uncle,  "  Sam 
Ward  of  the  Lobby."  She  loved  him  very  much, 
and  he  was  indeed  lovable  and  delightful.  He 
"  looked  at  life  in  an  oblique  way,"  as  his  sister 
said.  He  was  a  "  gourmet  "  to  a  degree.  He  came 
to  dine  with  me  once,  bringing  a  piece  of  Gorgon- 
zola  cheese  and  a  bunch  of  moss  rosebuds.  This 
act  does  more  justice  to  his  character  than  could 
pages  of  description.  He  wras  poet  and  man  of  the 
world.  Of  her  two  homes,  Mrs.  Howe,  as  I  knew 
her,  was  most  herself,  most  tranquil,  and  most 
charming  at  the  Newport  cottage.  There,  in  her 
plain,  simple  style,  she  entertained  many  a  distin 
guished  stranger  who  came  to  this  country.  There 
she  wrote  her  poem  of  the  "  Flag,"  which  I  once 
heard  her  read  at  a  meeting  of  the  Authors'  Club, 
with  her  transcendent  elocution.  I  forget  when  she 
wrote  her  most  world-renowned  lines,  "  The  Battle 
Hymn  of  the  Republic."  They  dropped  from  her 
perhaps  in  her  sleep — no  matter  where. 

Often  called  eccentric,  a  name  which  does  not 
trouble  her,  she  has  pursued  the  train  of  thought 
and  the  course  of  action  which  seemed  good  to  her 
without  shadow  of  fear.  Her  self-possession  is  per 
fect,  and  she  has  been  blessed  with  far  more  than 
the  usual  share  of  good  health.  Long  journeys  to 
the  West  to  talk  on  woman's  suffrage,  long  trips 
[229] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'T'heir  Homes 

to  New  Orleans  to  organize  a  colored  school  or 
preside  at  a  fair,  have  left  her  quite  unmoved. 
Fifteen  years  ago  she  took  her  youngest  daughter 
all  over  Europe  and  to  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land, 
making  the  journey  from  Joppa  on  horseback,  and 
undergoing  fatigues  from  which  her  young  com 
panion  shrank. 

When  Julia  Ward  left  Bond  Street  she  left  lux 
ury  behind  her,  for  Dr.  Howe  thought  every  dollar 
not  spent  for  suffering  humanity  was  misspent,  and 
she  seemed  to  agree  with  him.  She  probably  never 
cared  much  for  dress  or  for  showy  entertainments. 
It  was  her  pleasure  to  initiate  at  Newport  the 
Town  and  Country  Club,  which  became  a  great 
boon  to  visitors  at  the  City  of  the  Sea,  so  devoted 
to  amusement,  gorgeous  balls,  and  grand  dinners. 
It  furnished  once  a  fortnight  some  literary  enter 
tainment  for  the  more  quiet  and  reflective  citizens 
and  those  "  who  do  not  dance."  I  have  seen  at 
Mrs.  Howe's  cottage  the  road  filled  with  carriages 
and  showy  horses,  which  had  brought  the  fashion 
out  from  the  town  to  hear,  first,  Mrs.  Howe  herself 
speak,  and  then  to  listen  to  clever  papers  from  the 
choicest  scholars  of  Boston. 


[230] 


yeannette   L.  Gilder 
In  New  York  City 


BY  MISS  GILDER 

Born  in  Flushing,  Long  Island,  New  York 

Taken  by  Siege. 

The  Autobiography  of  a  Tomboy. 

Essays  from   The  Critic  [Editor  ofj. 

Representative  Poems  of  Living  Poets  [Editor  ofj. 

[Editor  of  The  Critic  from  the  Beginning,  and  still  its  Editor.] 


Q 
k 


XXI 
jfeannette   L.  Gilder 

In  New  Tork  City 

AT  ten  years  of  age  Jeannette  Leonard 
Gilder  read  Franklin's  autobiography  and 
made  up  her  mind  to  be  a  printer.  The 
steps  to  the  goal  have  been  cut  out  of  odds  and 
ends  of  material  that  did  not  match,  but  an  un 
swerving  and  coherent  purpose  has  fitted  them  so 
solidly  into  each  other  that  the  public  who  grate 
fully  claim  a  large  part  of  Miss  Gilder  as  their 
own  are  fain  to  discern  a  homogeneous  plan  in  the 
accidents  and  obstacles  out  of  which  she  has  wrested 
the  rounded,  wholesome  life  active  among  us  to 
day.  This  wholesomeness  and  activity  are  charac 
teristic  of  the  woman  as  well  as  her  work.  She 
takes  herself  simply  and  unaffectedly,  with  a  most 
delightful  unconsciousness  that  her  success  is  any 
thing  more  than  a  logical  fulfilment  of  the  laws  of 
temperament  and  heredity. 

"  Printer's  ink  ran  in  our  veins  instead  of  blood. 
I  did  not  choose  a  profession,  a  profession  chose 
me — I  might  almost  say  before  I  was  born,  for  not 
long  ago,  when  rummaging  in  the  attic  in  our  old 
home  at  Bordentown,  I  came  upon  The  Literary 
Register  and  Review  of  Books  and  Schools,  a  faded 
[233] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

sheet  of  almost  the  same  size  and  typographical 
appearance  as  The  Critic  when  it  was  a  weekly,  and 
edited  in  Philadelphia  by  my  father,  who,  until  then, 
I  did  not  know  had  ever  edited  a  paper  of  his  own." 

Mr.  Gilder  died  in  the  army,  and  almost  im 
mediately  after  the  war  the  founder  and  co-editor 
of  The  Critic  made  her  first  essay  in  literary  work. 
Mr.  John  Y.  Foster  engaged  her  at  $10  a  week  to 
go  every  day  to  the  Adjutant-General's  office  in 
Trenton  and  collect  material  for  his  "  History  of 
the  New  Jersey  Troops  During  the  War."  This 
work  lasted  only  six  months,  but  she  remained  with 
the  Adjutant-General  for  six  months  more  work 
ing  on  the  records.  Her  next  employment  was  in 
the  Philadelphia  Mint,  where  she  went  nominally 
to  weigh  gold,  but  practically  to  make  bags  for 
the  gold. 

"  I  really  did  neither.  The  women  at  work  dis 
covered  that  I  could  whistle,  sing,  and  spin  yarns, 
so  they  made  my  share  of  the  bags  while  I  whistled, 
sang,  and  spun  yarns  for  them." 

At  the  end  of  a  month  she  applied  for  the  yearly 
vacation  of  a  month,  frankly  telling  the  superin 
tendent  before  accepting  the  vacation  payment  that 
she  might  not  return.  His  answer  was  to  hand  her 
the  $40,  saying,  "  I  guess  the  Government  can  afford 
that  much  if  you  don't  come  back." 

She  did  not.  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  was 
[234] 


Jeannette  L.   Gtlder 

at  that  time  on  the  Newark  Daily  Advertiser.  "  He 
sent  home  half  his  salary  and  paid  out  the  other 
half  for  board,  until,  it  occurring  to  him  that 
we  might  as  well  have  the  benefit  of  the  whole, 
we  moved  to  Newark.  Here  I  went  into  an  ac 
countant's  office.  Now,  I  never  could  add  up  a 
column  of  figures  correctly,  so  I  don't  know  what 
I  trusted  to  when  I  accepted  the  position,  unless  it 
was  to  luck.  However,  I  stayed  there  for  six 
months,  and  my  work  was  faultlessly  done.  Not 
by  me,  however.  There  happened  to  be  in  the  office 
a  young  fellow  who  could  add  up  several  columns 
of  figures  at  a  time  and  who  had  a  love  of  music 
and  a  defective  ear.  I  taught  him  to  whistle  all 
the  popular  airs  and  he  did  my  work." 

It  was  soon  after  this  that  Miss  Gilder  began 
the  career  in  which  she  has  won  distinction  by  the 
quality  of  her  work  and  for  having  kept  her  ideals 
of  achievement  "  free  from  contagion  of  the  world's 
slow  stain."  The  Critic  stands  to-day  for  the  high 
impartiality,  the  scrupulous  adherence  to  the  un 
written  as  well  as  written  canons  of  her  profession, 
and  the  steadfast  pursuit  of  literature  for  literary, 
as  distinct  from  commercial,  ends  that  have  domi 
nated  Jeannette  Gilder  from  the  time  when,  a  girl 
of  seventeen,  she  worked  on  the  Newark  Register, 
a  morning  paper  founded  by  her  brother,  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  and  R.  Newton  Crane,  and  was 
[235] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

reporter  from  Newark  for  The  Tribune  on  a  salary 
of  $12  a  week.  Owing  to  a  habit  of  signing  her 
initials,  instead  of  her  full  name,  she  reported  for 
The  Tribune  for  three  years  before  Whitelaw  Reid 
discovered  she  was  a  woman. 

"  Then  he  '  bounced '  me,  because  he  couldn't 
trust  a  woman — even  one  who  had  done  the  work 
satisfactorily  for  three  years  without  his  discover 
ing  that  she  was  a  woman — to  do  the  work  satis 
factorily.  I  now  decided  to  try  for  purely  literary 
work,  and,  carrying  a  letter  of  introduction  from 
the  late  Kate  Field,  went  to  James  Gordon  Ben 
nett  and  asked  for  book-reviewing  on  The  Herald. 
He  told  me  to  send  him  something  original  in  the 
way  of  reviews.  I  went  home,  talked  the  matter 
over  with  Kate  Field,  and  the  next  week  submitted 
the  first  number  of  the  '  Chats  About  Books  '  that 
afterward  achieved  the  prominence  and  popularity 
of  being  burlesqued.  I  was  immediately  put  on 
The  Herald  with  a  salary  of  $30  a  week — after 
ward  increased,  for  space  work,  to  $100." 

In  the  meantime  Miss  Gilder  edited  "  The 
Homes  and  Haunts  of  Our  Elder  Poets "  for 
Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  It  was  with  the  $750 
she  received  for  this  book  that  she  and  Mr.  Joseph 
B.  Gilder  brought  out  the  firs;  number  of  The 
Critic  in  a  little  office  over  Daniel's  dry  goods  store 
at  Eighth  Street  and  Broadway.  Mr.  Gilder  gave 
[236] 


Jeannette  L.  Gilder 

up  the  position  of  night  city  editor  on  The  Herald 
to  become  the  desk  editor,  while  Miss  Gilder  got 
the  advertisements,  collected  the  literary  news,  and 
in  a  general  way  did  the  out-of-doors  work.  All 
sorts  of  things  went  wrong  with  the  printing  and 
arrangement  of  the  first  number — it  was  bare  of 
editors  and  address — but  its  literary  quality  was 
assured  by  such  contributors  as  Edmund  C.  Sted- 
man,  Emma  Lazarus,  Sidney  Howard  Gay,  Paul 
Potter,  and  Charles  de  Kay.  In  the  second  issue 
appeared  the  first  of  a  series  of  papers  on  nature, 
by  Walt  Whitman,  entitled  "  How  I  Get  Around 
at  Sixty  and  Take  Notes,"  and,  almost  immediately 
afterward,  the  first  instalment  of  Joel  Chandler 
Harris's  "  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus."  Marion 
Crawford  wrote  poems  and  essays  for  The  Critic 
before  he  was  generally  known;  James  Lane  Allen 
was  another  contributor  of  various  papers  before 
he  had  done  anything  in  the  way  of  fiction,  and 
H.  H.  was  a  constant  contributor. 

"  Before  the  second  number  was  off  the  press  the 
$750  was  gone.  Then  Joe  confessed  to  having 
$1,000  in  bank.  The  fourth  edition  exhausted  this, 
and  we  decided  to  give  up  the  paper.  '  They  may 
laugh,'  I  said,  '  I  suppose  they  will,  but  we  shall 
close  without  owing  a  dollar;  so  if  we  can't  enjoy 
the  laugh  we  sha'n't  be  afraid  or  ashamed  of  it.' 
But  it  is  not  easy  to  give  up  the  aim  of  a  whole  life. 
[237] 


Women  Authors  of  Oz/r  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

That  night  I  thought  of  a  friend  who  had  money, 
a  warm  heart,  and  literary  loves  and  ambitions.  I 
took  my  courage  in  both  hands  and  went  to  him 
with  a  frank  statement  of  the  situation.  The  re 
sult  was  that  he  lent  us  $5,000 — upon  the  unbusi- 
ness  basis  that  we  should  not  return  it  if  we  did  not 
succeed — and  became  a  stockholder  in  The  Critic." 
The  next  epoch  in  the  history  of  The  Critic  was 
its  consolidation  with  Good  Literature — owned  by 
Taintor  Brothers,  Merrill  &  Co. — under  the  title 
The  Critic  and  Good  Literature.  When  Taintor 
Brothers,  Merrill  &  Co.  dissolved  partnership,  The 
Critic  and  Good  Literature  was  incorporated  as 
"The  Critic  Company,"  with  Charles  E.  Merrill 
as  president.  A  few  years  later  a  new  company  was 
formed,  with  Norman  F.  Cross  as  president,  to  buy 
out  Mr.  Merrill's  interest.  Miss  and  Mr.  Gilder 
continued  as  editors,  and,  being  large  stockholders, 
were  officers  of  the  new  company  as  well.  Four 
years  ago  Mr.  Gilder  became  literary  adviser  of 
the  publishing  department  of  the  Century  Company, 
and  Miss  Gilder  was  left  sole  editor  with,  however, 
the  benefit  of  her  brother's  valuable  counsel.  Mr. 
Gilder  has  since  gone  to  London  to  live  as  the 
European  representative  of  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  & 
Co.,  and  can  only  help  by  "  absent  treatment,"  not 
always  the  most  practical  in  editorial  work.  Miss 
Gilder  spends  her  long  vacations  in  Europe,  and 
[238] 


Jeannette  L.   Gilder 

finds  the  change  a  stimulating  one  both  physically 
and  mentally. 

Miss  Gilder's  work  has  not  been  restricted  to  that 
of  a  newspaper  woman  and  literary  editor.  In 
1886  she  published,  anonymously,  in  Lippincott's 
Magazine,  "  Taken  by  Siege,"  which  was  after 
ward  published  anonymously  in  book  form,  then 
syndicated,  still  anonymously,  and  eleven  years  later 
published  over  her  own  name  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  She  has  also  had  a  number  of  plays  produced 
since  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  in  Philadelphia, 
brought  out  "Quits."  "The  Tomboy,"  brought 
out  three  years  ago  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  is 
autobiographical.  The  sequel  she  has  been  asked  to 
write — "  The  Tomboy  at  Work  " — will  cover  a 
record  of  energetic  effort  beginning  not  long  after 
she  left  the  beautiful  old  place  at  Flushing,  L.  I., 
where  she  was  born  and  where  her  father,  Mr. 
William  H.  Gilder,  of  Philadelphia,  carried  on, 
with  the  wise  co-operation  of  his  wife  (Miss  Jane 
Nutt,  of  New  Jersey),  the  school  for  girls  at  which 
many  of  the  Harpers'  daughters  and  relatives  were 
educated.  The  editor  of  The  Critic  dwells  upon 
school  vacations  with  the  retrospective  pleasure  of 
a  woman  who  for  nineteen  years  never  had  more 
than  two  consecutive  days  of  holiday.  Her  first 
real  leisure  was  when,  in  1886,  she  went  abroad 
for  three  months. 

[239] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Jeannette  Gilder's  achievement  in  the  world  of 
critical  literature  bulks  large  not  only  in  its  quan 
tity,  but  in  the  influence  it  has  had  upon  American 
literature  and  in  the  position  it  holds  in  England. 
And  yet  the  woman  herself  is  more  interesting  than 
either  the  author  or  the  editor,  for  the  woman  re 
veals  unconsciously  the  pith  and  marrow  of  her 
work — breadth  and  sanity  of  view,  singleness  of 
purpose,  a  generous  eagerness  to  claim  for  others  a 
share  in  her  success,  and  the  dignity  that  roots  in 
much  feeling  for  the  rest  of  the  world  and  little 
thought  of  self.  The  study  in  which  she  writes, 
reads,  and  receives  her  friends  is  characteristic. 
There  are  books  and  pictures,  a  desk  suggestively 
full  and  open,  a  blazing  fire  that  lights  up  autograph 
portraits  of  distinguished  men  and  women,  and 
copies  from  the  old  masters,  and,  over  all,  the  at 
mosphere  of  a  life  given  up  to  the  pursuit  which 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says  means  the  putting 
down  of  the  base  and  trivial  in  an  unresting  striving 
for  the  highest. 


[240] 


Edith    Wharton 
In  New  Tork  City 


BY  MRS.  WHARTON 
Born  in  New  York  City 
The  Greater  Inclination. 
The  Touchstone. 
Crucial  Instances. 
The  Valley  of  Decision. 


Edith  JVharton. 


XXII 

Edith    Wharton 
In  New  York  City 

IN  1891  Edith  Wharton  was  known  only  to  a 
limited  and  exclusive  society;  to-day  she  stands 
in  the  foremost  rank  of  the  men  and  women 
who  are  making  the  literary  history  of  America. 
Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  her  work,  it  has,  be 
yond  question,  the  distinction  which  is  one  of  the 
qualities  that  makes  artistic  achievement  imperish 
able.  Whether  she  possesses  the  other  essential — 
the  warm,  full  pulse  of  uncounted  human  emotion 
that  strikes  an  answering  beat  in  the  universal  heart 
— is  a  point  of  contest  between  those  who  condemn 
her  as  the  too  literary  disciple  of  Henry  James  and 
those  who  are  rapidly  forming  a  cult  of  which  she 
is  the  central  figure.  The  growth  of  this  cult  may 
be  watched  month  by  month  in  the  magazines  that 
stand  for  literary  art  as  well  as  literary  amusement, 
and,  while  owing  its  inception  to  Henry  James,  has 
rooted,  branched,  and  flowered  into  a  fecund,  in 
dividual  organism. 

An  assiduous  and  a  sensitive  ear  to  the  intellectual 
power  of  word  relation  and  word  suggestion,  vivid 
ness  of  visualization,  chastity  of  artistic  conception 
and  artistic  expression,  and  analysis  refined  almost 
[243] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

to  attenuation  are  the  qualities  that  Mr.  James  and 
Mrs.  Wharton  have  in  common.  What  draws  a 
widely  individualizing  line  between  them  is  choice 
of  motive  and  the  method  of  handling  it.  Mr. 
James  is  elaborately  indirect,  Mrs.  Wharton  elabo 
rately  direct.  The  first  pages  of  Mr.  James's  story 
are  devoted  to  obscuring  or  concealing  the  motive 
which  the  last  pages  sometimes  fail  to  discover; 
from  the  beginning  Mrs.  Wharton's  motive  is  made 
clear  with  the  delicacy,  intricacy,  and  finish  of  a 
Chinese  carving  in  ivory.  Reading  Mr.  James  is 
like  trying  to  follow  the  clew  of  a  labyrinth  whose 
exit  leaves  you  still  puzzling  over  the  entrance  and 
far  from  sure  that  you  are  out  of  the  tangle.  Read 
ing  Mrs.  Wharton  is  like  strolling  through  a  gar 
den  whose  farthest  reaches  of  color  and  grouping 
compose  with  exquisite  inevitableness  into  the  open 
ing  vista.  The  essential  character  of  Mr.  James's 
motive,  since  his  transition  from  the  vigorous  prom 
ise  and  achievement  of  "  Roderick  Hudson "  and 
'  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  "  into  the  over-ripe  ma 
turity  of  "  The  Sacred  Fount "  and  "  The  Wings 
of  a  Dove,"  is  its  aloofness  from  the  thrill  of  life 
felt  in  the  human  grasp  of  the  obvious  and  accus 
tomed.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  not  a  story 
in  "  The  Greater  Inclination  "  or  "  Crucial  In 
stances "  which  may  not  find  a  parallel  in  the  in 
communicable  human  experience  breathing  around 
[244] 


Edith  Wharton 

us  to-day ;  and  this  will  be  equally  true  when  "  to 
day  "  means  the  day  of  future  generations. 

The  force  of  this  parallel  is  also  its  limitation — 
it  runs  lip  to  lip  with  the  voice  of  social,  literary, 
and  artistic  culture.  For  Mrs.  Wharton  belongs 
to  that  small  and  exclusive  chapter  of  artists  who 
have  achieved  without  the  accepted  incentives  to 
achievement.  In  one  sense  born  to  the  place  she 
has  made  her  own  in  creative  art,  in  another  she 
has  won  it  from  the  inaccessible  seclusion  of  wealth 
and  social  position — she  is  wholly  without  the 
knowledge  of  life  learned  through  study  of  the  sor 
did  and  brutal  face  it  turns  upon  those  who  struggle 
with  "  the  meanness  of  opportunity "  or  are  inti 
mate  with  the  clamoring  needs  of  the  body.  A 
sentence  in  the  opening  paragraph  of  "  The  Muse's 
Tragedy  "  epitomizes  the  tonal  quality  of  her  work 
and  the  impression  left  by  her  personality:  ".  .  . 
she's  like  one  of  those  old  prints  where  the  lines 
have  the  value  of  color."  Artistic  and  social  dis 
tinction  are  stamped  ineffaceably  upon  the  woman 
and  the  author. 

Italy  is  the  land  of  her  love,  and  her  stories  of 
Italian  life  and  records  of  travel  in  Italy  are 
"  seethed  in  the  milk  "  of  Italian  history,  art,  and 
literature.  She  knows  her  Italy  so  intimately  that 
she  has  forgotten — and  makes  her  readers  forget — 
that  she  learned  it.  "  The  Valley  of  Decision  " 
[245] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

marks  her  escape  into  the  freedom  of  a  simpler 
manner  and  larger  issues  through  that  rare  gift — 
historic  imagination.  The  author  has  clothed  the 
dry  bones  of  dead  problems  and  conditions  with  the 
flesh  and  blood  of  their  day  and  generation,  and 
brought  them,  detached  and  remote,  full-breathing 
their  own  moment  of  existence,  into  the  precincts 
of  sympathetic  memory.  The  book  rises  above  the 
conventional  phrases  of  "  local  color  and  atmos 
phere."  In  it  Mrs.  Wharton  evinces  gifts  of  con 
struction,  of  selection  and  co-ordination,  not  less 
striking  than  her  power  to  apprehend  and  present 
a  motive,  a  psychological  situation,  a  movement  of 
the  soul;  and  in  it,  also,  she  tantalizes  and  disap 
points  her  readers  by  the  omissions  characterizing 
everything  she  writes — omissions  springing  partly 
from  the  circumstances  of  her  environment,  partly 
from  temperament,  and  partly  from  her  mastery  of 
words.  Words  are  so  plastic  beneath  her  fingers 
that  they  tempt  her  into  playing  with  them;  sub- 
tility  of  expression  rarities  the  nerves  and  tendons 
of  life ;  her  characters  are  studies  in  character  rather 
than  real  men  and  women.  She,  with  her  readers, 
stands  on  their  outskirts,  interested  in  the  relation 
of  circumstance  to  soul  instead  of  what  quickens 
the  actual  drama  of  life — the  relation  of  the  in 
dividual  soul  to  the  individual  circumstance.  In 
tellectual  processes  seem  to  have  sealed  up  instead 
[246] 


Edith  Wliarton 

of  divined  the  life-blood  of  creative  art.  One  has 
the  feeling  that  she  never  forgets  herself  or  her  tools 
in  her  creations,  and  justifies  her  aloofness  by  becom 
ing  part  of  it. 

Mrs.  Wharton's  first  published  work,  "  Mrs. 
Mansty's  View,"  a  short  story,  appeared  in  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  1891.  Since  then  she  has  been  an 
indefatigable  and  versatile  worker.  Besides  "  The 
Touchstone " — in  which  she  reaches  her  highest 
emotional  level — and  "  The  Valley  of  Decision," 
she  has  published  short  stories,  poems,  and  miscel 
laneous  articles,  all  marked  with  the  literary  breed 
ing,  the  insight,  the  clarity  of  diction  that  make  for 
permanency.  Mrs.  Wharton  is  a  daughter  of 
George  Frederick  Jones  and  Lucretia  Stevens  Rhine- 
lander.  She  was  born  in  New  York ;  her  husband, 
Edward  Wharton,  is  a  native  of  Boston.  Their 
homes  in  New  York  and  Lenox  breathe  the  influ 
ence  of  intellectual  and  artistic  beauty  springing 
from  inherited  culture  and  eclectic  and  discriminat 
ing  taste  and  training. 


[247] 


Gertrude  Atherton 

In  New  York  City 


BY  MRS.  ATHERTON 

Born  in  San  Francisco,  California 

Before  the  Gringo  Came. 

A  Whirl  Asunder. 

Patience  Sparhawk  and  Her  Tines 

His  Fortunate  Grace. 

American  Wives  and  English  Husbands. 

The  Californians. 

Senator  North. 

The  Conqueror. 


Gertrude  Atherton. 


XXIII 

Gertrude  Atherton 
In  New  Tork  City 

UT  I  have  no  home,"  Mrs.  Atherton 
said,  "I  am  a  wanderer  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth.  The  necessity  to  settle  down 
would,  I  think,  actually  affect  my  brain.  Some 
time  ago  I  leased  an  apartment,  but  for  several  days 
was  made  quite  wretched  by  the  idea  that  I  had 
committed  myself  to  stay  in  one  place  for  a  year. 
Freedom  is,  or  at  least  should  be,  essential  to  any 
artist,  and  freedom  is  to  be  found  only  through  an 
open  mind  and  a  wide  and  varying  horizon." 

This  sentence  epitomizes  Mrs.  Atherton's  per 
sonality  and  her  intellectual  trend  both  as  an  essay 
ist  and  a  novelist,  the  three  so  interlacing  that  it  is 
difficult  to  separate  the  woman  from  the  author. 
"  Patience  Sparhawlc,"  "  The  Californians,"  "  The 
Daughter  of  the  Vine,"  "  American  Wives  and  Eng 
lish  Husbands,"  "  Senator  North,"  "  The  Aristo 
crats,"  "  The  Conqueror,"  and  "  The  Splendid  Idle 
Forties  "  are  alive  with  the  temperament,  the  inter 
est  in  different  motives  and  questions,  the  cosmo 
politan  receptivity  to  impression  and  suggestion,  the 
cosmopolitan  readiness  to  seize  and  assimilate  con- 
[251] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

trasting  phases  of  modern  living  as  well  as  modern 
life  that  make  Mrs.  Atherton  as  entertaining  as  her 
books.  Though,  as  her  earlier  work  indicates,  she 
was  born,  brought  up,  and  educated  in  San  Fran 
cisco,  she  has  spent  much  of  her  time  abroad.  In 
deed,  it  was  in  England  that  she  first  received  dis 
tinguished  recognition  as  a  writer.  But  long 
before  this,  when  a  girl  of  twelve  or  fourteen,  she 
planned  the  scheme  of  life  that  she  had  so  success 
fully  worked  out. 

"  When  I  was  almost  a  child,"  she  said,  "  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  a  writer — that  nothing  else  was 
really  worth  while — and  I  have  never  wavered 
either  in  my  ideals  or  their  pursuit.  I  wrote  stories 
when  a  child,  a  play  when  I  was  still  at  school,  and 
soon  after  my  marriage — which,  by  the  way,  was 
one  of  the  most  important  incidents  of  my  school- 
life — my  first  novel,  '  What  Dreams  May  Come.' 
It  was  great  trash.  I  could  not  read  it  now,  but  I 
was  so  delighted  with  having  written  a  book  that 
I  rewrote  it  every  time  it  came  from  the  publishers 
— seven  times,  I  think." 

Mrs.  Atherton  has  little  patience  with  a  delib 
erate  search  for  material,  but  she  believes  that  con 
stant  change  of  scene  and  association  affords  the  best 
stimulus  to  creative  work.  To  this  end  she  is  a 
traveller,  and  has  been  a  sojourner  in  many  lands. 
More  than  one  of  her  novels  was  written  in  Eng- 
[252] 


land,  "  American  Wives  and  English  Husbands " 
in  Rouen,  "  Senator  North  "  at  Bruges,  "  The  Con 
queror  "  in  New  York. 

The  rapid  movement  and  diversity  of  scene  char 
acterizing  the  author's  novels  are  in  keeping  with 
her  methods  of  work:  "  Senator  North  "  was  writ 
ten  in  ten  weeks,  "  The  Conqueror "  in  seven 
months.  Mrs.  Atherton  spent  a  winter  in  Wash 
ington  before  writing  the  former.  When  congratu 
lated  upon  having  caught  "  the  very  moral  "  of  the 
Senate  chamber  in  the  chapter  containing  Senator 
North's  speech  on  the  Cuban  War,  she  said:  "I 
ought  to  be  familiar  with  the  proceedings  of  the 
House  and  Senate — I  went  there  nearly  every  day 
for  three  months.  No,  I  did  not  originally  intend 
to  make  the  Cuban  War  the  setting  for  my  story. 
It  worked  up  to  that  period,  and  I  then  read  the 
'  Congressional  Records  '  of  that  session." 

It  is  the  author's  interest  in  political  history  which 
led  to  the  writing  of  her  latest  and,  perhaps,  strong 
est  novel,  though  she  herself  insists  that  "  The 
Conqueror  "  is  dramatized  biography,  not  a  novel. 
Its  foundations  are  laid  in  exhaustive  study  of 
American  history,  politics,  and  biography,  and  of 
the  historical,  political,  and  social  conditions  of 
Nevis,  St.  Kitts,  and  St.  Croix  at  the  time  of  Ham 
ilton's  birth  and  during  his  life  there,  of  his  family 
on  both  sides  of  the  house,  and  of  the  islands  them- 
[253] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

selves.  Mrs.  Atherton's  attitude  to  her  work  is 
happily  illustrated  by  a  half-jesting  remark  about 
this  particular  book :  "  As  I  wrote  on  my  interest  in 
Hamilton  became  so  strong,  so  maternal,  that  I 
could  not  bear  to  part  from  him.  In  fact,  I  rewrote 
the  last  chapters  three  or  four  times  before  I  could 
bring  myself  to  sever  the  relation  between  us." 

"  My  style  is  all  my  own,"  she  said,  in  answer  to 
a  question  about  her  magazine  work,  "  and  not  the 
result  of  magazine  training — which  stamps  the  work 
of  every  other  writer  of  the  first  class  in  the  coun 
try.  I  used  to  regret  that  the  magazines  would  not 
have  me,  but  now  I  am  very  glad;  for  good  or  ill, 
I  stand  alone." 

Though  she  goes  out  socially  between  books,  the 
author  of  "  The  Conqueror  "  is  happiest  shut  off 
from  the  world  with  her  pen.  When  writing,  she 
works  all  day  except  during  the  hours  allotted  to 
meals  and  exercise,  and  sleeps  all  night.  The  sug 
gestion,  inspiration — whichever  may  be  the  proper 
term — of  a  story  comes  to  her  usually  through  the 
characters  who  are  to  figure  in  a  certain  situation. 
Incidents  follow  of  themselves,  as  it  were,  the  au 
thor  not  always  knowing  what  will  happen  next  or 
what  will  be  the  end.  Toward  the  last  she  often 
writes  at  night,  spurred  on  by  the  cumulative  in 
terest  of  the  final  drama. 

The  notes  for  this  sketch  were  taken  with  the 
[254] 


Gertrude  Atherton 

pen — made  from  a  Nevis  lime-tree — with  which 
she  corrected  the  proofs  of  "  The  Conqueror,"  and 
the  ink  dipped  from  a  curious  and  beautiful  ink 
stand  of  Russian  silver  and  black  enamel  given  to 
her  to  use  in  writing  "  Senator  North."  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  her  first  as  well  as  last  copy  is  made  on 
the  type-writer — the  first  very  rapidly,  with  scarce 
ly  an  erasion;  the  polishing  and  refining  are  done 
later. 

Just  now  she  has  in  view  a  play  of  which  the  hero 
is  Hamilton.  This,  however,  is  the  only  point  of 
resemblance  between  "  The  Conqueror "  and  the 
drama  which  will  extend  still  further  the  versatility 
that  is  one  of  Mrs.  Atherton's  marked  traits.  "  The 
idea  came  to  me  one  night,  and  when  I  awoke  the 
next  morning  two  acts  were  waiting  to  be  put  into 
concrete  form." 

Mrs.  Atherton's  attitude  to  publishers  is  that  of 
the  author  to  whom  writing  has  meant  pecuniary 
success  as  well  as  literary  distinction.  "  I  have 
found  that  a  writer  may  safely  trust  to  the  fairness 
and  generosity  of  reputable  publishers,  but  the  ad 
jective  means  everything." 

Her  mother,  Gertrude  Franklin,  was  a  grand- 
niece  of  Benjamin  Franklin  and  a  Southern  woman; 
her  father,  Thomas  L.  Horn,  a  prominent  citizen  of 
San  Francisco,  originally  from  Stonington,  Conn. ; 
and  people  interested  in  tracing  the  influence  of 
[255] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  '•fheir  Homes 

heredity  and  of  opposing  characteristics  in  union 
will  find  in  her  writings  and  in  herself  a  picturesque 
blending  of  the  energetic  North  and  West  and  the 
tropical  South.  In  spite  of  the  somewhat  masculine 
note  of  her  work  she  is  essentially  feminine. 


[256] 


Mary   Mapes  Dodge 
In  New  Tork  City 


BY  MRS.  DODGE 
Born  in  New  York  City 
The  Irvington  Stories. 
Hans  Brinker. 
Rhymes  and  Jingles. 
A  Few  Friends. 
Donald  and  Dorothy. 
Along  the  Way. 
The  Land  of  Pluck. 


XXIV 

Mary   Mapes  Dodge 

In  New  Tork  City 

IT  is  a  far  cry  from  "  Harry  and  Lucy  "  to 
"  Hans  Brinker;  or,  The  Silver  Skates,"  from 
Maria  Edgeworth  to  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  and 
one  that  runs  the  whole  gamut  of  literary  expression 
separating  conventional  instruction,  mental  and 
moral,  put  into  the  mouths  of  conventional  children 
who  speak  conventional  English  and  do  the  conven 
tional  thing  in  the  conventional  situation,  and  flesh- 
and-blood  children  whose  end  you  must  learn  as 
soon  as  you  know  their  beginning,  and  whose  minds 
and  morals  you  forget  in  the  interest  of  themselves 
and  their  story.  In  other  words,  Miss  Edgeworth 
wrote  theoretically  about  children;  Mrs.  Dodge 
interprets  childhood.  She  crystallized  in  a  casual 
sentence  or  two  one  day  the  open  sesame  to  the  do 
main  she  has  made  her  own.  "  The  child's  world 
is  a  different  world,  a  preparatory  world,  a  world 
that  is  coming  on.  You  must  build  yourself  around 
the  humanity  of  childhood."  And  again,  "  The 
natural  thing  is  the  thing  that  grasps  a  child  in  lit 
erature  as  well  as  in  life." 

To  separate  the  woman  in  her  home  from  the 
editor  at  her  desk  or  the  author  in  her  study  would 
[259] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

be  impossible  —  happy  endeavor  and  love  given 
largely  and  actively  bind  into  a  unified  whole  a  life 
of  versatile  expression  and  achievement.  Under 
lying  a  style  of  spontaneous  charm,  and  going  hand 
in  hand  with  humor  whose  keenest  thrusts  leave  no 
sting,  are  intellectual  integrity,  delight  in  discover 
ing  and  acknowledging  in  others  gifts  of  mind  or 
spirit,  responsiveness,  a  quickness  to  feel  and  believe 
as  buoyant  as  if  her  energies  had  not  been  claimed 
by  an  absorbing  profession,  and  a  serene  and  joyous 
outlook  undimmed  by  much  knowledge  of  the  world 
gained  by  living  in  the  midst  of  its  ambitions  and 
activities.  Mrs.  Dodge's  first  published  article, 
"  Shoddy  Aristocracy  in  America,"  and  the  manner 
of  its  publication,  were  as  much  the  outcome  of  her 
susceptibility  to  the  human,  as  well  as  the  literary, 
appeal  of  life  as  to  her  sense  of  humor  and  instinct 
for  artistic  expression.  Because  it  was  based  upon 
personal  observation  the  article  was  sent  to  The 
Cornhill  Magazine,  of  London,  as  a  publication 
safely  removed  from  the  comedy  and  the  actors  it 
presented.  By  return  post  she  received  a  draft  for 
£50  and  a  request  from  The  Cornhill  for  a  series 
of  papers.  To  Mrs.  Dodge's  amazement  the  article 
was  reprinted  in  whole  or  in  part  by  many  of  the 
leading  newspapers  in  the  United  States. 

Her  first  short  story,  "  My  Mysterious  Enemy," 
was  promptly  accepted  by  Harpers  Magazine,  and 
[260] 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge 

"  The  Insanity  of  Cain,"  a  brilliant  piece  of  special 
pleading,  and  one  of  her  most  characteristic  essays 
in  the  humorous  or  satirical  vein,  attained  instant 
popularity  at  the  time  of  its  publication  in  Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly.  This  article  grew  out  of  a  remark 
to  Mr.  Roswell  Smith  when  Mrs.  Dodge  and  he 
were  discussing  the  recent  acquittal  of  a  criminal 
on  the  plea  of  emotional  insanity. 

"  They  will  be  saying  next  that  Cain  was  in 
sane,"  Mrs.  Dodge  said,  jestingly. 

"  What  a  subject  for  an  article,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Won't  you  write  it  for  us,  at  once?  " 

"  Miss  Malony  on  the  Chinese  Question,"  which 
was  one  of  Charlotte  Cushman's  favorite  humor 
ous  selections,  is  another  instance  of  the  author's 
gift  for  rinding  stories  in  the  obviously  common 
place,  and  of  the  rapidity  with  which  she  writes. 
"  We  were  at  supper  one  evening — we  were  liv 
ing  in  the  country  at  that  time — when  Mr.  Gilder, 
then  assistant  editor  of  the  old  Scribner's  Monthly 
— now  The  Century  Magazine — was  announced. 
Instead  of  coming  in  to  tea  as  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  doing,  he  made  signs  from  the  dining- 
room  door  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  me  privately. 
Somebody  had  failed  them  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and 
Dr.  Holland  had  sent  out  to  say  that  they  must 
have  a  humorous  contribution  from  Mrs.  Dodge  the 
next  morning.  Protestations  and  expostulations 
[261] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  'Their  Homes 

were  received  with  counter  protestations  and  ex 
postulations,  and  after  supper  Mrs.  Dodge  went 
upstairs  to  write  the  article.  "  With  not  an  idea 
in  my  head,  I  sat  for  a  while  gazing  vacantly  into 
space,  and  then,  perhaps  because  there  was  no  pos 
sible  connection  between  the  task  in  hand  and  a 
quick-witted  Irish  cook  we  had,  she  flashed  before 
my  mental  vision  and  persistently  rilled  it,  obscur 
ing  everything  except  the  blank  sheet  and  a  miser 
able  consciousness  of  Mr.  Gilder  waiting  confidingly 
downstairs.  What  key  of  association  brought  to 
mind  the  name  of  a  Chinese  servant  of  my  sister,  in 
San  Francisco,  is  equally  inexplicable — but  in  the 
imaginary  by-play  between  these  two  characters  the 
article  took  shape.  The  only  difficulty  was  to  write 
fast  enough.  When,  an  hour  or  so  later,  I  carried 
it  down  to  Mr.  Gilder  he  tried  to  look  pleased,  but 
I  have  always  felt  that  in  time  he  must  have  shared 
my  surprise  at  the  public  appreciation  which  it 
received." 

Mrs.  Dodge,  already  a  well-known  writer  for 
grown  people,  had  created  a  children's  department 
in  Hearth  and  Home,  founded  and  edited  by  Don 
ald  G.  Mitchell  and  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  and 
some  years  later  edited  by  Edward  Eggleston,  and 
had  published  the  "  Irvington  Stories  "  and  "  Hans 
Brinker"  when  Mr.  Roswell  Smith  asked  if  she 
would  write  him  a  letter  embodying  her  idea  of  a 
[262] 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge 

magazine  for  children.  "  But  in  the  writing  the 
letter  developed  into  an  article,  so  I  drew  my  pen 
through  the  heading,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge,  "  and  sent 
with  the  manuscript  a  note  asking  Mr.  Roswell 
Smith  to,  let  me  have  it  again.  Mr.  Eggleston,  at 
that  time  the  editor-in-chief  of  Hearth  and  Home, 
had  told  me  that  he  needed  something  to  fill  a  space 
left  blank  by  the  illness  of  one  of  our  regular  con 
tributors,  and  therefore  I  told  him  of  the  letter  I 
had  just  sent  off.  But  the  next  day  I  received  a 
note  from  Mr.  Roswell  Smith  enclosing  a  check 
instead  of  my  manuscript — which  appeared  as  an 
article  in  the  next  month's  issue  of  Scribner's 
Monthly" 

Not  long  after,  Mrs.  Dodge  was  asked  by  Mr. 
Roswell  Smith  to  edit  a  magazine  for  children 
upon  the  lines  drawn  in  her  letter.  Meanwhile, 
wishing  to  give  her  undivided  time  to  writing,  she 
had  refused  a  very  handsome  offer  to  become  the 
editor  of  Hearth  and  Home.  Her  two  sons  were 
then  at  college,  and  it  was  eventually  the  younger 
son  that  turned  the  scale  in  favor  of  the  Scribner 
proposition.  He  had  studied  beyond  his  strength, 
and  his  mother  felt  that  he  needed  an  extended 
vacation  and  change  of  scene.  She  herself  had  long 
wished  to  go  abroad,  and  so,  when  she  was  offered 
a  salary  to  begin  upon  the  day  of  the  preliminary 
offer — this  was  in  April  or  May — with  the  under- 
[263] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

standing  that  the  initial  number  of  the  magazine 
was  not  to  appear  until  January,  and  freedom  to 
spend  the  intervening  time  where  and  as  she  chose, 
she  accepted  the  offer. 

From  the  first  everything  was  left  entirely  in  her 
hands.  "  If  I  asked  for  suggestions,  I  received  one 
unvarying  answer:  '  It  is  your  magazine;  do  what 
you  think  best.'  The  choice  of  a  name  was  a  diffi 
culty  that  assumed  gigantic  proportions.  I  wrote 
to  two  or  three  friends  asking  for  suggestions,  but 
none  that  were  offered  fulfilled  what  seemed  to  me 
an  essential — that  the  name  should  belong  to  no 
time  or  nationality,  and  that  it  should  belong  in 
alienably  to  all  children.  I  was  in  my  aunt's 
drawing-room  one  day,  waiting  for  her  return  home, 
when  I  said  to  myself,  '  You  must  find  a  name  be 
fore  you  leave  this  room.'  And  then  '  St.  Nicholas ' 
came  to  me.  I  never  had  a  misgiving  about  it;  it 
seemed  impossible  that  I  should  ever  have  thought 
of  any  other."  The  house  decided  to  bring  out  the 
first  number  in  November,  and  Mrs.  Dodge  re 
turned  from  Europe,  having  found  nothing  in  the 
publications  there  to  modify  her  original  plan.  At 
the  end  of  the  year  the  new  magazine  had  out 
stripped  all  competitors.  Indeed,  within  a  few 
months  after  the  issue  of  the  first  number,  Messrs. 
Osgood  &  Co.  frankly  acknowledged  that  they 
could  not  stand  against  their  rival,  and  made  a 
[264] 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge 

proposition  which  resulted  in  the  merging  of  Our 
Young  Folks  into  St.  Nicholas. 

St.  Nicholas  is  now  a  household  word  both  in 
England  and  America,  an  influence  so  long  estab 
lished  that  it  is  taken  for  granted,  but  its  birth  and 
growth  have  meant  the  creation  of  a  new  school 
of  literature  for  children.  The  ideals  that  have 
given  "  The  Irvington  Stories,"  "  Donald  and  Dor 
othy,"  and  "  Hans  Brinker;  or,  The  Silver  Skates" 
a  permanent  place  in  this  literature  have  made  St. 
Nicholas  plastic  and  progressive.  "  A  magazine  for 
children  can  have  no  policy,''  the  editor  avows. 
"  Influence  springs  from  something  deeper  than 
opinion."  It  is  this  absence  of  policy,  a  spontaneity 
that  has  its  source  in  a  catholic  sense  of  beauty  and 
a  whole-hearted  adaptation  to  the  demands  of  the 
present  as  well  as  the  obligations  of  the  past  that 
endues  St.  Nicholas  with  youth  as  immortal  as  that 
of  each  day  and  generation. 

But  Mary  Mapes  Dodge  is  not  only  the  play 
fellow  of  little  children  and  the  comrade  of  young 
folks,  she  is  the  poet  of  men  and  women  who  have 
contended  with  the  horsemen  and  breasted  the 
swelling  of  Jordan.  "  The  Two  Mysteries,"  "  En- 
foldings,"  and  "  The  Compact "  are  the  key-note  to 
the  woman  herself.  Depth  and  tenderness  of  feel 
ing,  intellectual  poise,  spiritual  insight,  and  sim 
plicity  of  expression  are  one  with  her  and  her  work. 
[265] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Mrs.  Dodge  was  born  in  New  York,  and  has 
spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life  there.  She  comes 
of  distinguished  lineage;  her  mother  was  Sophia 
Furman,  her  father  the  noted  scholar,  scientist,  and 
inventor,  Professor  James  J.  Mapes.  She  married, 
early  in  life,  William  Dodge,  a  prominent  lawyer 
of  New  York.  While  still  in  her  early  youth  she 
was  left  a  widow  with  two  little  boys.  A  little  later 
she  entered  the  profession  in  which  she  has  achieved 
international  distinction.  "  Hans  Brinker "  has 
been  translated  into  French,  German,  Dutch,  Rus 
sian,  and  Italian.  The  French  version  won  the 
Montheyon  prize  of  the  French  Academy,  and  when 
Mrs.  Dodge's  son,  some  years  ago,  asked  in  Amster 
dam  for  the  best  and  most  popular  Dutch  story  for 
boys  and  girls,  the  bookseller  handed  him — to  his 
delighted  surprise — a  Dutch  translation  of  "  Hans 
Brinker,"  with  the  remark  that  the  best  book  of  the 
kind  was  by  an  American  woman.  Not  only  this 
famous  story,  but  many  other  notable  compositions 
for  young  folk,  in  both  prose  and  verse,  were  writ 
ten  during  these  busy  years. 

Mrs.  Dodge  permits  no  intrusion  upon  her  home- 
life,  but  there  are  friends  within  the  inner  circle 
who  count  among  their  happiest  memories  the 
"  den,"  arranged  and  decorated  by  herself,  in  which, 
during  her  early  widowed  life,  she  kept  her  sons' 
birthdays  with  simple  gifts,  a  feast  of  nuts  and 
[266] 


Mary  Mapes  Dodge 

fruit,  a  birthday  cake,  and  verses,  written  sometimes 
while  the  boys  clamored  for  admittance — verses 
holding  within  their  light-hearted  greeting  a  kernel 
of  sweet  and  wholesome  inspiration.  These  birth 
days  rounded  the  circle  of  weekly  holidays  in  which 
the  mother  belonged  wholly  to  her  children.  Mrs. 
Dodge's  only  surviving  son  has  inherited  his  moth 
er's  and  grandfather's  intellectual  gifts.  He  is  a 
well-known  inventor  and  president  of  the  Link- 
Belt  Engineering  Company  and  The  Dodge  Cold 
Storage  Company,  and  in  1902  was  elected  presi 
dent  of  the  American  Society  of  Mechanical  En 
gineers. 

Mrs.  Dodge's  New  York  home  is  filled  with  rare 
and  beautiful  things;  original  drawings,  bas-reliefs, 
signed  etchings  and  engravings,  family  portraits, 
old  and  modern  pictures,  antique  furniture — the 
breath  of  inherited  culture — and  books,  books  every 
where.  "  An  open  book  is  a  roomful,"  she  said, 
with  her  hand  on  an  author's  copy.  The  drawing- 
room,  library,  and  music-room  are  the  centre  of  her 
domestic  and  social  life — a  gathering-place  of  chosen 
friends  and  of  many  well-known  authors  and  artists. 
Her  "  study "  is  her  work-room.  Most  of  her 
editing  is  done  here.  From  the  first  Mrs.  Dodge 
has  been  a  home-worker,  going  only  once  a  week  to 
the  St.  Nicholas  office.  As  to  her  method  of  work, 
she  confesses  to  a  bad  habit  of  writing  without  stay 
[267] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  rfheir  Homes 

or  pause  when  she  is  in  the  fervor  of  composition, 
and  an  utter  inability  to  work  by  the  clock.  She 
acknowledges,  also,  a  bit  of  crankiness  in  preferring 
a  quill  pen  to  any  other. 

She  spends  her  summers  at  her  cottage  in  Onte- 
ora  Park,  and  here,  as  in  New  York,  she  makes  her 
home  a  place  of 

"  gracious  freedom,  like  the  air 
.  Of  open  fields  ;  its  silence  hath  a  speech 
Of  royal  welcome  to  the  friends  who  reach 
Its  threshold,  and  its  upper  chambers  bear, 
Above  their  doors  such  spells,  that,  entering  there 
And  laying  off  the  dusty  garments,  each 
Soul  whispers  to  herself:   '  'Twere  like  a  breach 
Of  reverence  in  a  temple  could  I  dare 
Here  speak  untruth,  here  wrong  my  inmost  thought. 
Here  I  grow  strong  and  pure  ;  here  I  may  yield, 
Without  shamefacedness,  the  little  brought 
From  out  my  poorer  life,  and  stand  revealed, 
And  glad,  and  trusting,  in  the  sweet  and  rare 
And  tender  presence  which  hath  filled  the  air.'  " 


[268] 


Rebecca    Harding    Davis 

In  Philadelphia ,  Pennsylvania 


BY  MRS.   DAVIS 

Born  in  Washington,  Pennsylvania 

Life  in  the  Iron  Mills. 

Margaret  Howth. 

Waiting  for  the  Verdict. 

Dallas  Galbraith. 

A  Law  Unto  Himself. 

Kitty's  Choice. 

Frances  Waldeaux. 

Doctor  Warrick's  Daughter. 


XXV 

Rebecca   Harding   Davis 

In  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania 

IT  has  been  a  long  time  since  Rebecca  Harding 
Davis  published  her  first  novel,  "  Margaret 
Howth."  "  A  funny  little  book,"  she  calls  it, 
"  in  which  I  hammered  my  readers  with  the  views 
and  opinions  smouldering  for  years  in  me — and  for 
got  to  tell  a  story."  "  Waiting  for  the  Verdict," 
published  soon  after  the  war,  approaches  more 
nearly  the  author's  present  attitude  to  life  and  its 
problems.  Views  and  opinions  touch  life  at  so 
many  differing  points  that  they  have  broadened  into 
openness  and  perception  in  which  the  race  problem 
— of  the  negro — is  passed  under  succeeding  lights 
having  nothing  in  common  except  the  tragic,  ines 
capable  shadow  cast  by  each  turn  of  the  lantern. 
Then,  too,  the  author  remembers  to  tell  a  story,  and 
a  very  human  and  interesting  one.  Whichever  side 
of  the  question  her  readers  may  take  there  will 
scarcely  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  interest  of  the 
story  and  the  quality  that  makes  the  interest.  And 
this  may  be  said  of  everything  Mrs.  Davis  has 
written,  from  "  Dallas  Galbraith "  to  "  Frances 
Waldeaux."  Her  answer  to  a  question  about  the 
[271] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

latter  book  is  characteristic  of  the  woman  and  her 
work: 

"When  I  finished  'Frances  Waldeaux '  I 
couldn't  decide  which  you  believed  the  stronger  in 
fluence  in  a  man's  life — his  love  for  his  mother  or 
for  his  wife,"  someone  once  said  to  her. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide,"  was  her  instant 
response. 

This  willingness  to  leave  questions  open,  to  ac 
knowledge  that  every  verdict  must  be  an  individual 
verdict;  and  an  equally  pronounced  unwillingness 
to  talk  about  herself,  either  as  an  individual  or  as 
an  author,  are  distinctive  traits  of  a  writer  who  was 
one  of  the  first  American  women  to  win  interna 
tional  recognition  as  a  thoughtful  interpreter  of 
American  life  and  human  nature. 

Another  thing  not  to  be  omitted  in  any  attempt 
to  bring  Mrs.  Davis's  personality  before  her  read 
ers  is  the  environment  in  which  that  part  of  her 
belonging  to  the  public  has  budded,  flowered,  and 
borne  the  fruit  of  high-minded,  persistent  devo 
tion  to  the  profession  of  letters.  She  is  primarily  the 
house-mother,  as  innocent  of  ambition  to  be  known 
as  was  Mrs.  Oliphant,  whose  place  in  English  life 
and  literature  is  nearly  akin  to  that  Mrs.  Davis  holds 
in  America.  Both  wrote,  in  the  beginning,  because 
writing  came  easily  and  eagerly  to  them ;  both  have 
chosen  to  portray  chiefly  domestic  life  in  their  own 
[272] 


Rebecca  Harding  Davis 

country,  the  bulk  of  their  work  is  creative;  both 
have  been  emphatic  contradictions  of  the  supersti 
tion  of  their  day — that  the  pursuit  of  literature  as 
a  profession  unfits  a  woman  for  family  life  and 
rational  friendships;  both  have  chosen  to  rest  their 
claims  to  distinction  upon  their  sons.  Happily  for 
Mrs.  Davis  the  parallel  ends  here.  The  tragic 
drama  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  motherhood  finds  no  echo 
in  the  achievements,  still  full  and  vigorous,  that 
makes  Rebecca  Harding  Davis  happy  in  her  son's 
work. 

For  maternal  love  is  almost  a  passion  with  her, 
and  blending  with  it  in  scarcely  unequal  parts  is 
love  of  country.  She  happened  to  be  at  the  Warm 
Springs,  in  the  Virginia  Mountains,  when  news 
came  that  the  Spanish  fleet  had  been  destroyed  in 
attempting  to  escape  from  the  Havana  harbor. 
For  weeks  she  had  heard  nothing  from  Richard 
Harding  Davis,  who  was  fighting  as  well  as  report 
ing  fights.  Those  who  saw  her  when,  at  the  Fourth 
of  July  dinner,  the  orchestra  struck  into  "  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner  "  will  never  forget  her.  She 
was  the  first  person  on  her  feet,  and  as  she  faced  the 
length  of  the  large  dining-room,  her  hands  crossed 
on  the  chair  in  front  of  her,  her  head  a  little  thrown 
back,  she  might  have  stood  for  Love  and  Renuncia 
tion — the  model  of  the  Christian  mother  and  the 
Greek  patriot. 

[273] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

Not  that  there  is  anything  of  the  Greek  in  her 
appearance  or  her  ideals.  She  has  a  square-cut  face 
with  strongly  marked  features,  a  reticent  mouth, 
and  earnest,  dark  brown  eyes  ready  to  kindle  into 
merriment — the  face  of  a  woman  who  has  thought 
and  lived  deeply  and  wisely — and  a  sense  of  right 
that  refuses  to  bend  to  any  sophistries  about  beauty 
or  art  for  art's  sake.  Large  sympathies,  a  keen 
sense  of  humor  where  humor  does  not  trench  upon 
ridicule  or  satire,  and  simplicity  and  vividness  of 
expression  make  her  a  delightful  companion.  She 
has,  too,  a  capacity — indispensable  to  the  artist — for 
self-absorption  and  concentration  upon  the  task  in 
hand  regardless  of  social  allurements.  Her  habits 
of  work  at  home  are  only  to  be  guessed  at,  but  dur 
ing  the  summers  she  spends  at  the  Warm  Springs, 
at  the  end  of  an  hour's  talk,  she  always  manages  to 
escape  from  the  shady  veranda,  and  the  friends  and 
acquaintances  who  would  detain  her  there,  to  the 
little  white  weather-boarded  one-story  cottage,  built 
flat  to  the  ground,  and  overlooking  a  lawn  beautiful 
with  close-cut,  freshly  springing  grass  and  noble 
trees.  Here  she  writes  all  of  the  morning  and  most 
of  the  afternoon — what,  she  will  never  say,  any 
more  than  she  will  discuss  what  she  has  already 
given  to  the  public.  Silence,  stony  in  its  impene- 
trableness,  is  her  refuge  from  admirers  who  want 
to  talk  over  her  books. 

[274] 


Rebecca  Harding  Davis 

"  But  why  won't  you  tell  me  anything  when  you 
know  I  have  read  and  loved  you  ever  since  I  was 
a  little  girl  ?  "  a  young  writer  demanded  one  day. 

"  Because  when  you  are  mad  about  a  thing  you 
should  never  talk  about  it,"  she  returned,  and  fled 
incontinently  to  her  cottage. 

"  I  have  been  very  good  to  you,"  she  said  to  the 
same  person  a  day  or  two  later,  her  eyes  twinkling; 

"  Senator  was  rejoicing  this  morning  that 

there  wasn't  a  person  on  the  grounds  who  wrote — 
for  newspapers  or  anything,  and  I  didn't  betray 
you." 

Not  long  afterward,  in  answer  to  a  request  for 
criticism,  she  unconsciously  enunciated  two  princi 
ples  underlying  everything  she  has  written :  "  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  generality  that  covers  the 
ground  it  takes,"  and  "  If  you  want  a  reader  to  see 
a  thing  you  must  slap  him  in  the  face  with  it." 

Mrs.  Davis  was  born  in  Washington,  Pa.,  and 
is  a  daughter  of  Rachel  Leet  Wilson  and  Richard 
Harding.  Since  her  marriage  (1863)  to  Lester 
Clark  Davis,  the  well-known  editor  of  The  Public 
Ledger,  she  has  lived  in  Philadelphia ;  but  much  of 
her  work  has  been  done  at  her  country  home  in 
Marion.  Here  for  a  part  of  every  summer  the 
family  life  is  still  unbroken,  her  sons  returning  for 
their  vacation  with  as  much  delight  as  when,  boy 
and  college  students,  their  most  trusted  and  dearest 
[275] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  tfheir  Homes 

comrade  was  their  mother.  Mrs.  Davis's  intel 
lectual  outlook  is  not  confined  to  her  home  and 
literature.  She  is  abreast  with  the  thought  and 
movement  of  the  day,  entering  into  the  life  around 
her  with  the  enthusiasm  which  is  one  of  her  most 
helpful  and  inspiring  qualities  and  which  is  tem 
pered  and  individualized  by  the  habit  of  reflection. 


[276] 


Edith    M.    Thomas 

In  West  New  Brighton,  New  Tork 


BY  MISS  THOMAS 

Born  in  Chatham,  Ohio 
A  New  Year's  Masque  and  Other  Poems. 
The  Round  Year. 
Lyrics  and  Sonnets. 
The  Inverted  Torch. 
Fair  Shadow  Land. 
In  Sunshine  Land. 
In  the  Young  World. 


XXVI 

Edith    M.    Thomas 
In  West  New  Brighton,  New  Tork 

THOUGH  Edith  Thomas  was  born  in 
Ohio,  her  mother  was  a  native  of  Con 
necticut,  and  her  father's  family  of  Welsh 
origin.  With  the  Welsh  instinct  for  emigration 
and  pioneering,  they  settled  in  the  Western  Reserve 
when  it  was  little  more  than  a  wilderness.  Here 
love  of  adventure  and  a  taste  for  letters  seem  to 
have  blended  in  her  forefathers,  just  as  later  martial 
ideals  mingled  with  the  poet's  childish  dreams  of  a 
career.  A  paternal  uncle  was  a  school-teacher,  a 
lawyer,  a  journalist,  and  one  of  Walker's  filibuster 
ing  band ;  Miss  Thomas  when  a  little  girl  showed  a 
taste  for  books  and  made  up  her  mind  to  be  a  soldier. 
The  martial  ring  is,  however,  conspicuously  ab 
sent  from  her  poems,  though  it  finds  an  echo  in  the 
profession  of  her  choice;  to  be  a  writer  means  to 
carry  on  a  perpetual  warfare  that  victory  lends 
impetus  to  and  defeat  alone  ends.  Edith  Thomas 
dates  this  warfare — the  working  period  of  her  lit 
erary  life — from  1877,  the  year  in  which  the  first 
poems  that  she  regards  as  more  serious  than  "  un- 
considered  experiments  "  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Graphic.  Long  before  this,  when  a  school-girl  in 
[279] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

Geneva,  she  wrote  "  in-doors  and  out-of-doors,  in 
the  street,  in  the  school-yard,  or  wherever  she  might 
be  when  the  poems  '  came  to  her,'  "  rinding,  as  she 
does  now,  suggestions  in  chance  words  and  homely 
incidents,  in  the  beauty  breathing  from  sky  and  air. 
Through  The  Century,  The  Atlantic,  and  other 
magazines  of  the  same  order,  she  won,  first,  recog 
nition  from  the  reading  public,  then  distinguished 
rank  among  contemporary  writers,  and,  finally,  the 
place  that  is  now  with  one  voice  accorded  her.  "  A 
New  Year's  Masque  and  Other  Poems,"  "The 
Round  Year,"  "Lyrics  and  Sonnets,"  "The  In 
verted  Torch,"  "Fair  Shadow  Land,"  "In  Sun 
shine  Land,"  "  In  the  Young  World,"  "  A  White 
Swallow,  with  Other  Verses,"  attest  her  capacity 
for  work  and  the  quality  of  it;  while  her  love  of 
nature  and  her  interest  in  the  graver  questions  and 
aspects  of  life  are  indicated  by  her  choice  of  subjects. 
The  tone  of  her  poems  is  restrained  and  elevated, 
the  diction"  sober  and  delicate. 

Miss  Thomas's  personality  is  seen  only  in  a 
measure  through  her  creative  work.  So  far  from 
being  a  dreamer,  she  is  alive  to  the  current  interests 
and  topics  of  the  day,  delighting  in  the  push  and 
thrust  of  contact  with  large  movements  and  the 
people  who  are  living  in  them  and  inspiring  them. 
She  lives  in  Staten  Island,  a  few  feet  from  the  sea. 
Though  only  seven  miles  from  New  York,  the 
[280] 


Edith  M.  Thomas 

scenery  is  as  wild  and  picturesque  as  when  General 
Putnam's  head-quarters  were  there.  Odd  little 
houses,  with  beams  let  conspicuously  into  the  ma 
sonry,  show  where  the  Huguenots  settled,  and  visible 
traces  of  the  Indian  occupation  complete  the  atmos 
phere  of  a  day  long  past. 

In  charming  contrast  to  the  sylvan  character  of 
the  surroundings  and  the  quaint  old  foreign  houses 
is  the  varied  and  interesting  society  of  which  Miss 
Thomas  is  a  distinguished  member.  ''  The  Boston 
Colony,"  of  which  George  William  Curtis  was  the 
centre,  discuss  the  latest  or  the  newest  play,  music 
and  literature,  art  and  science,  politics  and  sociology, 
interweaving  with  the  repose  of  country  life  the 
culture  that  comes  of  close  touch  with  the  life  of 
the  nation. 

The  busiest  half  of  Miss  Thomas's  year  is  spent 
in  New  London  at  Stone  Cottage,  where  in  a  cozy 
room,  with  deep  window-seats  shaded  by  overhang 
ing  ivy,  she  passes  the  working  hours.  These  are 
not  fixed ;  she  works  industriously,  but  refuses  to  be 
bound  to  hours  or  a  desk.  Many  of  her  poems  have 
been  written  while  crossing  New  York  Bay,  and  in 
summer  most  of  her  writing  is  done  out  of  doors. 
In  appearance  Edith  Thomas  is  the  complement  of 
her  poems.  Her  features  are  delicately  modelled, 
her  brow  has  breadth  and  fulness,  and  her  eyes,  soft, 
dark,  and  compelling,  are  the  eyes  of  a  poet. 
[281] 


Elizabeth   Stuart   Phelps 

In  Gloucester •,  Massachusetts 


BY  MRS.  WARD   (Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps) 
Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts 

The  Gates  Ajar. 

Men,  Women  and  Ghosts. 

The  Story  of  Avis. 

An  Old  Maid's  Paradise. 

The  Madonna  of  the  Tubs. 

A  Singular  Life. 

Chapters  from  a  Life. 


XXVII 

Elizabeth   Stuart  Phelps 

In  Gloucester •,  Massachusetts 

"  "If  T  is  impossible  to  forget  the  sense  of  dignity 
I  which  marks  the  hour  when  one  becomes  a 

JL.  wage-earner,"  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  says 
in  that  delightful  "  story  of  the  story-teller," 
"  Chapters  from  a  Life."  "  The  humorous  side  of 
it  is  the  least  of  it,  or  was  in  my  case.  I  felt  that 
I  had  suddenly  acquired  value — to  myself,  to  my 
family,  and  to  the  world.  Probably  all  people  who 
write  '  for  a  living '  would  agree  with  me  in  recall 
ing  the  first  check  as  the  largest  and  most  luxurious 
of  life."  It  came  to  her  at  the  mature  age  of  thir 
teen,  when  she  had  recently  been  promoted  to  the 
dignity  of  high-necked  dresses  and  sitting  up  until 
nine  o'clock,  amounted  to  the  vast  sum  of  $2.50 
— paid  by  an  orthodox  young  people's  periodical — 
and  is  perpetuated  in  some  excellent  photographs 
of  Thorwaldsen's  "  Night "  and  "  Morning  "  that 
hang  in  Mrs.  Ward's  rooms  to-day.  Her  first  vent 
ure  was  even  earlier,  and  was  accepted  by  the 
Youth's  Companion  and  paid  for  by  a  year's  copy 
of  the  paper. 

But  Mrs.  Ward's  real  awakening  to  the  intel 
lectual  life  she  traces  to  her  father's  reading  to  her, 
[285] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

three  years  later,  the  writings  of  De  Quincey  and 
the  poems  of  Wordsworth.  De  Quincey  and 
Wordsworth  opened  to  her  the  world  of  letters,  and, 
while  she  was  still  in  her  seventeenth  year,  "  Aurora 
Leigh  "  "  revealed  to  her  her  own  nature."  "  I 
owe  to  Mrs.  Browning,"  she  writes,  "  the  first  vis 
ible  aspiration  (ambition  is  too  low  a  word)  to  do 
some  honest,  hard  work  of  my  own  in  the  World 
Beautiful,  and  for  it."  Her  father's  devoted  en 
ergy,  his  scholarship,  his  "  high  thinking  and  plain 
living  "  had  already  fixed  the  ideals  of  life  which 
have  taken  beneficent  and  beautiful  form  in  effort 
extending  over  a  period  of  thirty  years  and  embrac 
ing  short  stories,  novels,  poems,  and  essays,  and  in 
cluding  the  noble  work  done  for  the  fishermen  of 
Gloucester.  For  twenty  years  she  spent  six  months 
of  every  year  among  them — first  as  a  visitor,  after 
ward  as  one  of  the  most  active  and  beloved  members 
of  their  community — and  her  summer  home  is  still 
on  the  confines  of  the  old  fishing  town.  Her  work 
as  a  temperance  lecturer  and  reformer — for  that  was 
what  she  really  became  to  those  tried  and  tempted 
fishermen — began  in  the  seventies  and  lasted  as  long 
as  her  strength  did.  The  murder — in  a  bar-room — 
of  a  fisherman,  and  the  hour  spent  in  his  devastated 
home,  scattered  her  traditions  of  prejudice  against 
the  temperance  movement. 

"  I  am  going  into  that  rum-shop  next  Sunday," 
[286] 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 

she  announced  to  a  friend  upon  leaving  the  desolate 
home,  "  to  hold  a  service."  The  initial  step  was 
easily  taken;  the  bartender,  to  her  amusement  and 
amazement,  welcomed  her  as  his  "saviour  from  social 
downfall."  Nor  was  there  any  difficulty  about  an 
audience — the  saloon  was  packed,  chiefly  with  men. 
The  crux  of  the  situation  was  that  the  "  lovely, 
gray-haired  '  lady  from  Philadelphia,' "  who  had 
been  trained  by  Phillips  Brooks  in  his  younger  pas 
torate,  and  who  Mrs.  Ward  expected  to  conduct  the 
service,  gently  and  persistently  refused.  Mrs.  Ward 
had  to  speak  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  with 
out  preparation.  Perhaps  nothing  will  present  her 
personality  more  forcibly  than  what  she  has  to  say 
about  this  service :  "  A  great  red  stain  in  the  floor 
was  covered  from  sight  by  the  crowd.  To  say  that 
the  audience  was  respectful  is  to  say  little  enough. 
If  we  had  been  angels  from  the  clouds  or  courts  of 
heaven  we  could  not  have  been  received  with  more 
deference,  more  delicacy,  or  more  attention.  To  say 
that  no  disturbance  of  any  kind  took  place  is  again 
saying  too  little  for  the  occasion.  Not  a  foot  stirred, 
not  a  lip  whispered ;  indeed,  it  is  quite  within  bounds 
to  say  that  not  an  eye  wandered.  We  read  a  little 
— not  too  much — from  the  Bible,  and  we  sang  a 
hymn  or  two,  and  I  said  a  few  words,  and  we  came 
away.  .  .  .  We  did  not  too  much  blame  these 
men ;  they  had  reasons  for  getting  drunk,  which  life 
[287] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

had  never  made  apparent  to  us,  nor  did  we  berate 
the  rum-seller;  we  were  his  guests.  We  read  and 
spoke  to  them  of  better  things;  that  was  all." 

The  bartender's  hospitality  cooled  as  the  excite 
ment  died  out,  and,  after  a  few  services,  he  refused 
the  use  of  his  saloon.  It  was  not  until  the  next 
summer  that  the  work  regularly  began,  of  which 
Mrs.  Ward  says:  "  For  three  years  I  had  the  great 
happiness  of  serving  the  people  who  had  needed  and 
selected  me.  There  and  then,  if  ever,  I  became 
acquainted  with  life.  I  learned  more  from  my 
Gloucester  people  than  I  ever  taught  them.  .  .  ." 

Her  account  of  the  "  beginning  "  is  characteristic: 
"  The  next  year,  when  the  Old  Maids'  Paradise  was 
opened  for  the  season,  a  person,  indistinctly  known 
to  our  domestic  world  as  '  the  vegetable  man,'  one 
day  quietly  made  his  way  from  the  back  door  to  the 
front,  and  boldly  demanded  that  I  should  visit  the 
Reform  Club  and  give  a  temperance  lecture.  If  he 
had  asked  me  to  discover  the  North  Pole  in  a 
Gloucester  dory  I  should  have  been  less  astounded, 
perhaps  less  shocked.  In  vain  did  I  reason  that  I 
did  not  know  what  a  reform  club  was;  that  I  was 
not,  and  never  might,  could,  would,  or  should  be  a 
lecturer,  and  that  a  temperance  lecturer  was  a  being 
so  apart  from  my  nature  and  qualifications  that  I 
was  better  fitted  to  salt  fish  upon  the  wharves  than 
to  assume  the  position  which  I  was  desired  to  fill. 
[288] 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 

The  petitioner  was  dogged,  obstinate,  ingenious,  and 
respectful.  It  seemed  that  the  organization  which 
he  represented,  having  heard  of  the  rum-shop  ser 
vices,  had  appointed  a  committee  to  request  my 
presence  in  the  appalling  capacity  specified,  and  no 
for  an  answer  these  enthusiasts  declined  to  take. 

"  '  I  do  not  lecture,'  I  persisted,  '  but  I  will  come 
up  to  your  club-room  and  help  you  somehow.'  Thus 
compromising  with  my  fate,  I  rode  up  in  the  vege 
table  man's  carry-all  to  the  club-room,  and  left  it 
that  first  evening  the  firm  friend  of  those  struggling 
men  and  women,  and  of  all  like  them,  in  hard  posi 
tions  and  in  service  like  theirs  forever." 

Gloucester  is  the  scene  of  "  An  Old  Maid's 
Paradise  "  and  "  Burglars  in  Paradise,"  and  of  "  A 
Singular  Life  " — the  story  which,  she  says,  "  came 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  sea,  and  of  a  heart  that  has 
long  loved  the  sea-people.  Bayard  is  my  dearest 
hero."  Indeed,  Gloucester  is  intimately  associated 
with  the  most  active  period  of  her  literary  life. 
Though  she  has  studiously  eschewed  everything  ap 
proaching  personalities  in  her  creative  work,  many 
of  her  short  stories  smack  of  the  old  fishing  town; 
and  here,  too,  she  wrote  "  The  Story  of  Avis  "  just 
before  succumbing  to  the  illness  which  at  one  time 
threatened  to  withdraw  her  wholly  from  literary 
work.  Wisely  directed  energy  and  capacity  to  adapt 
herself  to  existing  conditions  averted  what  would 
[289] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^fheir  Homes 

have  been  scarcely  less  a  misfortune  to  the  reading 
public  than  to  Mrs.  Ward  herself.  For  her  value 
has  been  a  steadily  increasing  value.  Succeeding 
years  have  enriched  and  chastened  her  technique, 
while  taking  nothing  from  the  vividness,  the  spiritual 
passion,  the  power  to  strike  the  human  note  which 
won  acceptance  in  Harpers  Magazine  (1864)  for 
her  first  story,  "  A  Sacrifice  Consumed,"  and  elicited 
from  Whittier  and  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
letters  of  congratulation  upon  her  first  mill-story, 
"  The  Tenth  of  January,"  founded  on  the  fall  of 
the  Pemberton  Mill,  and  published  in  The  Atlantic. 

These  two  stories  are  marked  with  red  letters  on 
the  author's  calendar  of  literary  success;  but  be 
tween  them  stretch  a  rapid  sequence  of  accepted 
stories  and,  alas!  the  hack-work  that  all  writers 
rebel  against  however  eager  they  must  be  to  get  it. 
Happily,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  was  young  and 
innocent  enough  to  rejoice  in  the  sets  of  Sunday- 
school  books  she  "  did  " — four  in  a  set,  and,  what 
seems  almost  incredible,  four  in  a  year — and  to 
accept  cheerfully  $100  each  for  the  "  Tiny  "  set, 
and,  with  an  abandonment  of  gratitude,  $150  each 
for  the  "  Gypsy  "  set.  She  also  contributed  regu 
larly  to  weekly  denominational  papers  secular  arti 
cles,  though,  strictly  speaking,  she  was  never  a 
journalist. 

Her  first  recollections  are  of  being  knocked  down 
[290] 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 

by  her  dog  in  her  father's  area  in  Boston,  and  being 
"  crowed  over  by  a  rooster  of  abnormal  proportions 
that  towered  between  her  and  the  sky,"  but  all  the 
influences  of  her  life  date  from  Andover.  When 
she  was  three  years  old,  her  father,  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Austin  Phelps,  resigned  his  Boston  pulpit  for  the 
professorship  of  Rhetoric  and  Homiletics  in  Ando 
ver  Seminary;  and  it  was  in  Andover  that  she  was 
educated  and  did  her  earliest  literary  work.  Across 
the  greensward,  which  as  a  baby  of  three  she  had 
indignantly  demanded  should  be  supplanted  by  a 
brick  sidewalk  to  play  upon,  she  trudged,  skipped, 
or  skated,  as  the  weather  or  her  spirits  made  most 
expedient,  to  Mrs.  Edwards's  School  for  Young 
Ladies — frivolously  known  as  the  "  Nunnery  " — 
and  in  the  old  white  house,  fragrant  with  helpful 
and  happy  memories  of  the  gifted  young  mother  who 
had  also  written,  she  wrote  her  first  stories  and  her 
first  novel,  "  The  Gates  Ajar."  It  may  be  safely- 
said  that  no  book  of  fiction  ever  created  wider  con 
troversy;  certainly  few  have  given  an  author  as 
much  pleasure  and  as  much  pain,  or  have  been  as 
generally  translated. 

Its  genesis  and  completion  are  best  told  in  Eliza 
beth  Stuart  Phelps's  own  words:  "  It  is  impossible 
to  remember  how  or  when  the  idea  of  the  book  first 
visited  me.  Its  publication  bears  the  date  of  1869, 
but  I  am  told  that  the  exact  time  was  in  1868 — 
[291] 


Women  Authors  of  Our  Day  in  ^heir  Homes 

since  publishers  sometimes  give  to  an  autumn  book 
the  date  of  the  coming  year.  My  impressions  are 
that  it  may  have  been  toward  the  close  of  1864  that 
the  work  began,  for  there  was  work  in  it,  more 
than  its  imperfect  and  youthful  character  might  lead 
one  ignorant  of  the  art  of  book-making  to  suppose. 
At  that  time,  it  will  be  remembered,  our  country 
was  dark  with  sorrowing  women.  The  regiments 
came  home,  but  the  mourners  went  about  the  streets. 
.  .  .  Into  that  great  world  of  woe  my  little  book 
stole  forth,  trembling.  So  far  as  I  can  remember  hav 
ing  had  any  '  object '  at  all  in  its  creation.  I  wished 
to  say  something  that  would  comfort  some  few — I 
did  not  think  at  all  about  comforting  many,  not 
daring  to  suppose  that  incredible  privilege  possible 
— of  the  women  whose  misery  crowded  the  land. 
.  .  .  How  the  book  grew,  who  can  say?  In  a 
sense,  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  wrote  it.  Yet  it  sig 
nified  labor  and  time,  crude  and  young  as  it  looks 
to  me  now.  .  .  .  Every  sentence  received  the 
best  attention  which  it  was  in  the  power  of  my  in 
experience  and  youth  to  give.  I  wrote  and  rewrote. 
The  book  was  revised  so  many  times  that  I  could 
have  said  it  by  heart.  The  process  of  forming  and 
writing  '  The  Gates  Ajar '  lasted,  I  think,  nearly 
two  years."  The  writing  was  done  wherever  she 
could  find  quiet:  sometimes  in  her  own  little  room 
overlooking  the  garden,  sometimes  in  the  attic  or 
[292] 


Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 

an  unfrequented  closet,  sometimes  in  the  barn  or  on 
the  hay-mow. 

Mrs.  Ward's  finest  achievement — for  "  The  Con 
fessions  of  a  Wife  "  is  still  avowedly  anonymous, 
though  those  who  love  and  admire  Elizabeth  Stuart 
Phelps  most  are  not  to  be  convinced  that  she  is  not 
its  author — is  "  The  Story  of  a  Singular  Life."  It 
is,  too,  her  latest  acknowledged  novel,  and  was  writ 
ten  chiefly  at  her  home  in  Newton  Centre,  Mass. 
Here,  within  twenty-five  minutes'  ride  of  Boston, 
she  lives  from  October  to  June,  in  the  happy  seclu 
sion  of  absorbing  work  done  under  the  stimulus  of 
sympathetic  criticism  and  companionship  and  in 
obedience  to  the  law  of  regular  hours  and  periods. 
For,  in  the  beginning  of  her  life  as  a  writer,  Mrs. 
Ward  formed  the  habit  of  work  which  she  believes 
to  be  the  keenest  spur  to  whatever  may  be  meant 
by  inspiration,  and  which  she  has  made  the  secure 
basis  of  incessant  and  fruitful  activity. 


[  293  1 


Index 


A  BBOTT,  LYMAN,  118 
•**•    Alden,  Henry  M.,  46,  60 
Aldrich,  T.  B.,  48,  59,  185 
Allston,  Washington,  223 
Atherton,  Gertrude,  portrait  of, 

facing   250  ;   sketch   of,  249- 

256  ;  books  by,  250 
"  Atlantic,  the,"  48,  49,  195 

•DALZAC,    HONORE    DE, 

108 
Barr,  Amelia  E.,  scene  in  her 

home,  facing,  112  ;  sketch  of, 

111-119;  books  by,  112 
Barrie,  J.  M.,  196 
Belcher,  Governor,  177 
Bennett,  J.  G.,  236 
Birrell,  Augustine,  197 
Booth,  Miss,  190 
Bridgman,  Laura,  226 
Brooks,  Phillips,  287 
Browning,    Elizabeth    Barrett, 

286 

Browning,  Robert,  196 
Bryant,  W.  C. ,  6 
Bunker  Hill  Monument,  221 
Burnett,  Frances  Hodgson,  her 

home  in  England,  facing  74  ; 

sketch  of,  73-81 
Byron,  Lord,  222 

/^ARLETON,  WILL,  189 
^-"'     Century  Company,  the,  37 
"Century  Magazine,  the,"  78 
Cherry  Croft,  114 
Clark,  Kate  Upson,  189 
Clarke,  James  Freeman,  223 
Cleveland,  Grover,  70 
Cogswell,  Dr.,  221 
"  Collier's  Weekly,"  162 
Congdon,  Charles  T. ,  6 
Cooper,  Fenimore,  5 
Craigie,    Mrs.,     see     Hobbes, 
John  Oliver 


Crane,  Stephen,  159 
Crawford,  Marion,  227,  237 
"  Critic,  the,"  234,  237-238 
Crockett,  S.  R.,  197 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  116 
Curtis,  G.  W.,28i 

TRAVIS,  L.  CLARK,  275 
•*-•'     Davis,  Rebecca  Harding, 

sketch  of,  269-276  ;  books  by, 

270 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  159 
De  Kay,  Charles,  237 
Deland,  Margaret,   sketch  of, 

51-61  ;  books  by,  52 
De  Quincey,  Thomas.  286 
Dodge,  Mary  Mapes,  her  desk 

at  home,  facing  258  ;  sketch 

of,  257-268  ;  books  by,  258 
Dodge,  William,  266 

pDGEWORTH,      MARIA, 
L-'      259 

Eggleston,  Edward,  262 
Eliot,  Charles,  225 
Eliot,  George,  133 
Ellsler,  Fanny,  224 
Emerson,  George  B.,  181 
Emerson,  R.  W.,  224 


,  KATE,  236 
Foster,  John  Y.  ,  234 
Franklin,  Gertrude,  255 
Freeman,  Dr.,  211 
Freeman,    Mrs.,   see    Wilkins, 

Mary  E. 

Fuller,  Margaret,  224 
Furman,  Sophia,  266 
Furness,  H.  H.,  43 

/~AY,  SIDNEY  HOWARD, 
V      237 

Gilder,   Jeannette    L.,    at  her 
desk   at   home,    facing   232  ; 


[297] 


Index 


sketch  of,  231-240  ;  books  by, 

232 

Gilder,  J.  B. ,  236,  237-238 
Gilder,   Richard    Watson,   38, 

78,  261,  234-235 
Gilder,  W.  H.,  239 
Gosse,  Edmund,  109 
Guion,  Warren,  148 

HALE,  EDWARD  EVER 
ETT,  177 

Hamilton,  Alexander,  253-255 
Harding,  Richard,  275 
Hardy,  Thomas,  126,  160 
Harland,    Marion,    picture   of 

her      home,      frontispiece ; 

sketch  of,  17-29 ;  books  by,  18 
"  Harper's  Bazar,"  190 
"  Harper's  Magazine,"  60 
Harris,  J.  C.,  201,  207,  237 
Harrison,  Frederic,  197 
Harrison,  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  see 

Mabel  Lucas,  65 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  7,  55 
Herrick,  Mrs.  Christine,  27 
Heyse,  Paul,  157 
Hobbes,  John  Oliver,   sketch 

of,  101-109 ;  books  by,  102 
Holland,].  G.,  261 
Holmes,  O.  W.,  3,  59,  225 
Hope,  Anthony,  126,  216 
Horn,  Thomas  L.,  255 
Hornung,  E.  W.,  67 
Howard,  Blanche  Willis,  sketch 

of,  153-163  ;  books  by,  154 
Howe,  Florence,  227 
Howe,  Henry,  228 
Howe,  Julia  Romana,  226 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  her  home, 

facing  220 ;    sketch  of,  219- 

230  ;  books  by,  220 
Howe,  Laura,  227 
Howe,  Maud,  227 
Howe,  Dr.  Samuel,  221-223 
Howells,  W.  D.,  59,  195 
Huntington,  Bishop,  182 
Hutchinson,  Thomas,  177 


TRYING,    WASHINGTON, 

3-5.  142 
Irwin,  Miss,  49 


TAMES,  HENRY,   155,   243- 
J       244 

Johnston,  Major  John  W.,  96 
Johnston,  Mary,  sketch  of,  91- 
99  ;  books  by,  92 

\7  ELLER,  HELEN,  191 
-^  Kingsley,  Charles,  68 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  160,  197 
Knox,  John,  117 

T  AZARUS,  EMMA,  237 
*•*  Longfellow,  H.  W.,  10-12, 

223 

Lothrop,  S.  K.,  177 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  10 

TV/TACLAREN.  IAN,  197 
•*•••*•  Malet,  Lucas,  sketch  of, 

63-72  ;  books  by,  64 
McAllister,  Ward,  227 
McKinley,  Miss  Helen,  147 
McKinley,  William,  152 
Mapes,  Tames  J.,  266 
Meredith,  George,  126,  160 
Meynell,  Alice,  161 
Miller,  Olive  Thome,  189 
Mitchell.  D.  G.,  262 
Motley,  J.  L. ,  223 
Moulton,      Louise     Chandler, 

scene   in    her  home,    facing 

122 ;     sketch    of,     121-128 ; 

books  by,  122 
Muller,  Max,  69 

JS^EWBURYPORT,  167 

QLIPHANT,     MRS.,     197, 
O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  59 

pARKER,       THEODORE, 

223 
Partridge,    William    Ardway, 

185 

Passmore  Settlement,  the,  131 
Pater,  Walter,  161 
Pellico,  Silvio,  222 
Pennell,  Elizabeth  Robbins,  49 


[298] 


Index, 


Phelps,  Austin,  291 

Phelps,       Elizabeth        Stuart, 

sketch  of,  283-293  ;  book  by, 

284 

Phillips,  Wendell,  224 
Pierce,  Franklin,  172 
Poe,  E.  A.,  9-10 
Potter,  Paul,  237 
Prescott,  W.  H.,  13,  223 
Prime,  Irenseus,  25 
Putnam,  George  P.,  5 


Q 


UILLCOTE-ON  -  SACO, 

85 


RALPH,  JULIAN,  189 
Reid,  Whitelaw,  236 

Repplier,  Mrs. ,  48 

Repplier,  Agnes,  sketch  of, 
40-49,  161 

Richardson,  Locke,  195 

Riggs,  Mrs.  George  C.,  see 
Wiggin,  Kate  Douglas 

Rives,  Amelie,  49 

Robbins,  Elizabeth,  49 

Runkle,  Bertha,  house  in 
which  "The  Helmet  of  Na 
varre  "  was  first  written,  fac 
ing  31 ;  sketch  of,  30-40 

Runkle,  Mrs.  Cornelius  A , 
34,  39 

ST.  NICHOLAS,  263-265 
Sangster,     Margaret     E., 

sketch  of,  187-198  ;  books  by, 

188 
Schley,  W.  S.,  152 

Seligman,  Mrs.  ,  151 

Sherwood  Forest,  140 
Sherwood,     M.     E.    W. ,    her 

home   in  Delhi,  facing    138 ; 

sketch    of,     137-152 ;    books 

by,  138 

Sherwood,  Samuel,  140 
Sixty-ninth  Regiment,  the,  149 
Smith,    Miss  Nora  Archibald, 

86 

Smith,  Roswell,  261,  262,  263 
Spofford,      Harriet      Prescott, 

sketch    of,    165-174 ;     books 


by,    166 ;    her   home,   facing 

166 

Spotswood,  Governor,  94 
Stedman,  E.  C. ,  237 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  240 
Stockton,  F.  R.,  22 
Stowe,  H.  B. ,  12-13,  202 
Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery,  sketch 

of,  199-208  ;  books  by,  200 
Sumner,  Charles,  223,  225 


"TAYLOR,  BAYARD,  14,  171 
*-      Terhune,  Mrs.,    see  Har- 

land,  Marion 
Teuffel,      Madame     von,     see 

Howard,  Blanche  Willis,  155 
Thackeray,  W.  M. ,  107 
Thomas,  Edith   M.,  sketch  of, 

277-281  ;  books  by,  278 
Thornton,  Sir  Edward,  171 
Ticknor,  George,  223 
Townsend,  Mrs.,  see   Burnett, 

Frances  Hodgson 
Train,  Colonel  Enoch,  179 
Train,    George    Francis,    179, 

181 
Trask,  Mrs.  Spencer,  139 


WAN   DE   WATER,  MRS., 
V         27 


\\ /"ALES,  JOHN,  214 

vv  Ward,  Elizabeth  Stuart 
Phelps,  see  Phelps,  Eliza 
beth  Stuart 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  sketch 
of,  120-136  ;  books  by,  130 

Ward,  Samuel,  229 

Warren,  James,  177 

Warren,  Joseph,  178 

Washington,  George,  117 

Watson,  William,  126 

Weiss,  John,  177 

Welsh,  Margaret  Hamilton, 
189 

Wharton,  Edith,  portrait  of, 
facing,  242 ;  sketch  of,  241- 
247  ;  books  by, 242 

Wharton,  Edward,  247 

Whitman,  Walt,  237 


[299] 


Index 


Whitney,  A.  D.  T.,  her  home,  Wilkins,  Mary  E.,  her  home, 

facing   176 ;   sketch  of,  175-  facing  210 ;   sketch  of,    209- 

185  ;  books  by,  176  217  ;  books  by,  210 

Whitney,  Seth,  181  Willis,  N.  P.,  6,  8,  118 

Wiggin,    Kate   Douglas,  view  Windsor  Hotel,  the,  144-152 

in    her    home,    facing    84 ;  Woodland  House,  143 

sketch  of,  83-89  Wordsworth,  William,  98,  286 


[300] 


COMPANION    VOLUMES 


Authors  of  Our  Day  in  Their  Homes 

Personal  descriptions  and  interviews.      Edited,  with  addi 
tions,  by  Francis  Whiting  Halsey.    Seventeen  illustrations. 
I  2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top.      With   Index  and   lists  of  books. 
$1.25  net.    %  Levant.    $2. 50  net.    i  2c.  postage. 


CONTENTS 


Mark  Twain 

in  Hartford   and  Dresden 
Winston  Churchill 

in  New  Hampshire 
Edward  Eggleston  in  Lake  George 
S.  Weir  Mitchell  in  Philadelphia 
Edwin  Markham  in  Staten  Island 
Laurence  Hutton  in  Princeton 
Goldwin  Smith  in  Toronto 
John  Bigelow  in  Highland  Falls 
R.  W.  Gilder  in  New  York 
C.  D.  Warner  in  Hartford 


John  D.  Champlin  in  New  York 
J.  C.  Harris  in  Atlanta 
Theodore  Roosevelt  in  Oyster  Bay 
Robert  Grant  in  Boston 
E.  E.  Hale  in  Boston 
Will  Carleton  in  Brooklyn 
Marion  Crawford  in  Italy 
Sir  Gilbert  Parker  in  London 
Robert  Barr  in  England 
J.  L.  Allen  in  New  York 
Booth  Tarkington  in  Indianapolis 
Carl  Schurz  in  New  York 


American  Authors  and  Their  Homes 

Personal  descriptions  and  interviews.  Edited  with  intro 
duction  and  additions  by  Francis  Whiting  Halsey.  Eighteen 
illustrations.  With  Index  and  lists  of  books.  I  2mo,  cloth, 
gilt  top.  $1.2$  net.  %  Levant.  $2. 50  net.  lac.  postage. 


CONTENTS 


R.  H.  Stoddard  in  New  York 
John  Burroughs  in  West  Park 
Henry  Van  Dyke  in  Princeton 

F.  R.  Stockton  in  West  Virginia 
H.  W.  Mabie  in  Summit 

T.  B.  Aldrich  in  Boston 
W.  D.  Howells  in  New  York 
P.  L.  Ford  in  New  York 
John  Fiske  in  Cambridge 

G.  W.  Cable  in  Northampton 
Joaquin  Miller  in  California 


E.  C.  Stedman  in  Bronxville 
T.  N.  Page  in  Washington 

F.  Hopkinson  Smith  in  New  York 

D.  G.  Mitchell  in  New  Haven 
T.  W.  Higginson  in  Cambridge 

G.  E.  Woodberry  in  New  York 
Andrew  Carnegie  in  New  York 
Brander  Matthews  in  New  York 
J.  K.  Bangs  in  Yonkers 

H.  M.  Alden  in  Metuchen 

E.  Thompson  Seton  in  New  York 


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